Define it for me, in ways I can understand. I should know this feeling, for all the years that I’ve studied it, but I don’t want to admit it, not yet, not here, not now, not to anyone, not even to myself. Somehow I’m afraid of this thing I know so well --not afraid of what it is or what it means, but afraid that …somehow it’s not real, that I’m imagining it all. And if it is real, will it last? Forever? I know it won’t. You know it won’t. Why bother with such fleeting glances and touches? Your eyes captivate me now, your hands enthrall me now, but I have seen time conquer everything. Are you above time? I surely am not. I dream of it all; I replay each time we meet, and I feel cheapened by that. Memories are never as powerful as the present nor as potent as the possible future. This is just the initiation, the teetering point of the future, the fulcrum of everything you and I have ever known. Will it end as slowly as it is beginning, or will it die suddenly, as have all the rest? I still feel echoes of the others screeching in the annals of my body and it disturbs me that this, provoked enough, could join them.