Life is not a series of snapshots,
Disjointed, separated by time and space,
Categorizing relations and emotions–
Me here, you there, we then, us when?
What does it take for a life to feel real?
This life, my life, our life, in pictures:
Clips and broken laughs, short smiles
Are enough–just–for how long, though?
How long can we last living–if it is that–
Like this: saying goodbye far more often
Than we meet–or so it seems to me.
Is this all we can expect from life today?
And what of tomorrow: will time relent
From its hold on our expectations for love?
And will the space repent of its sins against
A faltering relationship, struggling through?