We will be that cliche. That’s how we’ll understand each other, and the world us, and we’ll know what we’re doing, which actions fit us exactly: rain kissing, foot popping, candlelit proposals, Tiffany rings, devotion that won’t end, belief that can’t stop.

And when we’re sick, when we have pneumonia, and arthritis means we’re not limber like we were, and we’re paranoid matches start fires which kill us, and we’ve stopped thinking anything is unending, that there’s such thing as ultimate, that the concept of forever exists, we’ll still match our hands, find leg space, lay down, and I’ll follow your neck like it’s sermon and you’ll recite whispered prayers like repetition gets anything but comfort, which it doesn’t get now, but the smell of your washing power I have in place of a compass and your ring on your wrong hand is my Inception, reminder, my Leo DiCaprio.