He cupped her face made taut by near-protruding bone,
her asking, "Why did you love me anyway?
...Look at me.
How could you love this?"
"I do," he said. "It was never your form."
This he'd found having still same feelings with her return.
With this, she fell to her knees from waste
—not hers but of what would – their past;
she'd let experience' creation o'ertake her;
they'd have not chance to be in love.
Taking him with her in her sinking,
his long lost arched her back,
her body ravaged by disease.
She would to this, knew they, soon succumb,
having eaten always her hunger.
His left, being nearest, caught her bridging collapse;
his less dominant – less so attune
as with his with her in past that had them part,
was poised to aid, as had he dreamt;
and he'd, if not in this enraptured—of what he'd for so longed,
have noted to retain,
but life sole' keeps for us such moments.
She yearned to yell in realized loss;
he spoke then to ease and share hope of redemption:
"If a life like this exists after this,
love me then from the moment we meet.
...In the next, do love me.
Love me first time the next time."
And with her in knowing she already had
from such feelings we get and can never explain,
"I did! I did! I did!"
And this to such a classical climax,
"Time Noted," a fugue,
he knew then
all finites –as are our lives–
occur in infinity simultaneously.