It might have been that love came true,
that corruption was not dangerously askew.
It might have been that love and death
had come together to create our breaths.
For what is love, I say, without any fear?
The connection to the life-breath of your love drawing near,
the hearts that break, the reconciliations,
the ever-numbing feeling of Death's vibrations?
For a love that is without any depression
is just a symbol of Death's collection:
A jet-black-colored can of tin
that holds all the things that might have been.