Two souls on separate voyages,
not just beginning but well begun,
knowing enough of the world
but still in love with what is good.
This is how it happens.
A passionate perceiving, a beholding
of a second center to the world,
a blossoming of incompletion.
This is where it goes.
In the single tending of the two
the voyages converge
and, soul subsumed in soul, the two are one.
And this is how it ends. It never does.
Love is the gentle absence of many other things.
It will be the last thing left, the final trace
when our kind is finally done.