all our moments would be many, and splendid.
each would bulge into the next and time would lap at our heels
but it would not reach us.
we would best it,
always our best
and most beautiful selves.
we would be beautiful.
dreams would be made of us.
we would never stop in the gray
the place that clings like cobwebs in dark corners
places we forget to reach
we would never need consider
our own insignificance
for we would never be insignificant.
we would be the protagonist of all stories
the life of all parties
the light of all lives.
we would want and we would have
such were the promises made.
we should be happy.
we should force our faces to smile until we thought
happy felt like an ache in the soul
besides, what could we grieve?
we had our health
or rather, we knew what health looked like.
and some fell out of the race before we even knew we were running
we were already in too deep, drowning
before we even knew we should have learned to swim.
the stories are ripped from us
and we are stunned awake to see the world
decayed and feasting on us.
all of our gods are dead
and we are forgotten
and our dreams are rancid
and our lives are measured by the small and splendid moments
precious as jewels in their scarcity.