I am certain we don’t have the words yet
describing what is felt and unending.
I would like to crack open the sunset,
to experience constant change bleeding.
Because where on this blue dot can I find
syllables matching our silent slow smiles,
curves mimicking our promises rashly signed,
even punctuation for how time flies.
I am not first to go looking for this:
breves and paint are mightier than the pen,
and throwing it out brings an easy bliss,
relieving the heavy strain of being strange men.
A constructive proof begins at the end:
A likeness in our souls makes you friend.
Recommendation: Sonnet 90 by William Shakespeare.