I want to believe that the absolute maximum
feeling can only be achieved in the last gaze.
Anything before must be incomplete.
She disagrees.
With a reminder that time takes away perfection.
A moment after it happens.
But I persist here in spite, comfortable both, now.
And so hear you me.
Perfect contentment is death.
Heart we might take in such revelation.
To be alive is to endure waiting.
For the most is yet.
And these tears suggest more.
A city rests upon my wall.
Crying, I see how small.
How minute, and simple, and easy.
For we are not visible from that height.
Traces cannot be found in a brick,
but in a book.
Wise grandma, sweet grandpa,
this trap you did unspring.
A gaze that broke like the dawn in the sunset.
A love that then I imagined to know.
Full as I hope we will too.
Without the need to speak it.
And in that final knowing,
finally complete.
