Everyone wants to think
that they are special,
that their love is the purest,
their morals, most virtuous;
their upward drive unstoppable.
These lovers do not want to think,
in all the world, that there might be
two others just as happy,
in all the world, that there might be
two more perfect than them,
the thought could make you sick, if you
let it hold your mind.
the thought could make you sick: if
someone else's is better than mine.
Everyone wants to think,
that in the moment where they embrace
in love;
that in the moment where they close
their eyes, and
the whole world goes a perfect, feeling
dark;
the whole world might be watching,
jealous.
These lovers do not want to think
in this moment, of dark pasts that
haunt them;
in this moment, of darker futures that
will ambush them.
They lie there in their embrace, a
photograph of an instant;
they lie there in their silence, a
recording of perfection.
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