Darling, the way I see it,
what makes you worth my while
is what makes me worth yours:
at one point in time,
we will have both have had a pulse

My dear, I know you don't want to hear it,
but we're all merely specks of something
in the only everything that ever was
And eventually,
                  Nothing

Then, love, I must inquire:
Why do we fear time lost,
when time is only given?

Why do we cling to moments far behind us,
like sweat-dripping polyester,
enveloping ourselves entirely
in the absence of what once was?

Won't you tell me,
my darling, my dear, my love:
What's the difference, in dust and us?
Isn't it all just oh-so-inconsequential?

But what's so bad about eventual nothings?

We can’t hold a moment in our hands
a tangible something
But we can simply hold hands
a beautiful nothing