Hint at my twists.

At times, it’s hard to see what occurs between the points.
What shifts, who becomes whom, and where the gravitational pulls do fall.

All that can be viewed is the beginning point.
The where you were.
And the point to where you’ve come.

A craving of flesh, of happenings, of conversations yet to be had.

You can wait patiently, watching the clock tick away time so effortlessly.
Wait for the next occurrence.
The next point on the large, but ending, map.

The old crooners can croon,
The cicadas can still shed,
and the fireflies can light the moments.

And where will we be?