How much of the universe is contained in this
moment? We have boundaries. The forever we
want has the same radius as our imagination.
But death has that calculus of infinity and endless
time, the cold inevitability, the veiled mystery. The
dependency on life. What would death be if
life did not give itself up for it? What would the
universe be if death did not constantly renew
it? The forces that craft our being are also plotting
our end. But in this moment, your body feels
warm in the moonlight as it fits into mine. Your
words convert clouds into believers, stars into
unspoken prayer. The life we expect is the only
one we have learnt to bear. We wield desire against
this false certainty, this physics of not knowing:
as if improbable love is our final act of defiance.