I try to remember that joy is, if not stronger, at least deeper than pain. I don’t often do this, and I don’t often see or accept the finality of death and the absurd limitations of time and age. I most often don’t.
Privileged moments, past ones, are anyways always here to play with, present seemingly for ever, as some familiar and cherished curls a lover would caress or would play with, or pull from a lover’s face .
Later,
Your lovely hair, coming undone, a motion that can only be yours and that I know, that I do recognize down in the crowd,
My wrenching guts,
And it’s not you.