What is the half-life of love,
The rate of decay marked on my desire?
Surely there's an expiration date,
On the shrink-wrapped package of this fire.

Or venture, I,
Into the "never ends"?
Say,
"my love lasts as long
As a straight line extends"?

Is there a danger in being thusly naive?
Light Skin wrapped in dark,
Tomorrow on my sleeve?

The curved mark of inquiry daunts me, somehow.
Pulls me into the future,
When I should be here, now.