how have we known
how to write songs
without a tinge of melancholy?
how have we learned
how to sing verses
without the lilting doom
haunting our words?

i won't know what changed, love,
but maybe you will.
maybe you'll notice
the spring in my steps
on my way to spend
the world's end with you.
maybe you'll see the color
splash onto my face
as i rise from the sealed casket
of my age and time.
maybe you'll know from my smile,
from the sparkle in my eyes
as i throw myself into the fire.

how have we crossed a bridge
without burning the tassels
of what our love stood for?
i wonder now,
because i've spent ages
climbing walls over sacred sentiments,
translating foreign tongues for hours,
losing myself in the flurry of emotions
named and thrown my way.

but love, you proved it was easy
to speak the dying language
of buried poets, of bleeding hearts,
and of the scarred remains of culled wishes.
how have we learned
how to love as though
tomorrow cannot come?
you tell me, darling.
only you can.
you tell me,
and maybe i will notice
how have you learned
to love a decrepit soul like me
right where we stand.