They say nothing's perfect, but
I seem to recall every day with you
in incident's sprawl, and even hindsight
and monstrous critical faculty finds
not a thing wrong. Which by definish
Would be perfect, y'all.
No detectable flaw in these days of mine
which were times of yours, as well.
So heaven is made in the absolute
lack of hell you forever bring
in me to dwell.
These times that come in glorious
ongoing spurt and surge that runs
all together inside of us, reward
all urge and bring to fulfillment
all drives and such. We were made
to serve such purpose and want,
in suchlike loves. So much like
need, we push to shove and crowd
ourselves into each wide space
we have made on this beach, in time
to waste all our unspent speech
in a kiss that gives pause
to the air we breathe.
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