My love for you must be some form of death
For that's this world's one utter certainty:
The unavoidable ceasing of breath
A slow, hard inevitability.
Yet I must love you, so it must then be
A relative of death to love so dear;
For this is also sure, definitely,
And to be certain, must be death I fear.
So now that I have made it very clear
That love is death, am I a suicide?
I long for love, and ache to hold you near;
I cannot be without you by my side.
Yet I yearn not for death, no, not in practice
So love must not be death, but rather taxes.
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