What is it, this feeling that
nothing else matters, that
so long as we have this the world
can destruct, should destruct, and
later, when it has,
though not as we imagined,
holds us together like memory
or the imperceptible attraction
across the galaxies from
proton to neutron?
Why should pleasing someone else
be so important, what purpose
does it serve, this incompleteness,
how does it help? Is it
accidental as mathematics?
Silly me. To ask such
things. And yet, there is something
comforting in a question that
cannot be answered, like the wind,
and your hair in my hand.