The utter perfection of insatisfaction

The memories of those nights
together—years-old as they may be—
are vividly present in my mind and shed
judgement upon any new relationship
I might come across.

How can I forget your
blonde hair, moonlit and drenched
in Pacific water? Water that made bounds
unbound. Was it late at night, or early
in the morning? It didn’t matter then.
All that mattered was holding the moment,
knowing full well it wouldn’t last forever,
nor would it happen again.

Perpetual love might be the only fair
contestant to an instant crush. A love so
fleeting as life itself can’t be undermined.
The utter perfection of insatisfaction is
that it is to be regarded more powerful
than satisfaction itself, for it leaves us wanting.

Odes to love are as old as time, but not to
write them would be untrue. Untrue is
to not express what one feels, untrue is
not to be honest to oneself.