If we loved things in the moment the way
we do in retrospect, no poems would ever
be written. No love letters would be found

by grandchildren, no stories of spectacular

losses and unlikely saves would be told
by parents anxious to relive their glory days.
There would be no glory days, just an endless

blue sky, which, if unchanging, might as well be

grey, or no sky at all. Without darkness,
there is no way to conceptualize light.
Regardless, I know that I have loved

every moment with you to its fullest. No overlay

of memory could color you sweeter.
No poem can explain the way it feels
to lay my head against your ribcage

and fall asleep to the symphony of your breath.

I believe that every other light only reflects
your glow, that you are the sun in a world
of moons, a brightness from which I can find

no shadow. You do not make a good story,

but you are the reason I keep writing,
keep breathing, keep believing that love
is more than a plot device, more than a star

that falters and dies, waiting to fall over the horizon.