I’ll love you forever, as long as I’m living. This creeping sensation builds
up as we grow older and eventually festers

within us, inside us, like some black mold promising to tear us
down little by little, clotting our lungs and congesting our reason.

Where did this happen?
How, when we each were once so unique and true, did our days mutate into
something so pedestrian?

This lifelong theme of amour, this hunt
for a sentiment so fleeting in
something so fleeting

is our means to our end

This inharmoniously
dissatisfying bubble spins and turns but never falters