When someone writes the history of us--
Some scholar, maybe, hired by our kids,
Long years from now when our bodies are dust
And only stories witness what we did--
He'll edit some and gloss over the rest
For brevity--and so I think he'll miss
Some episodes when we were at our best,
For tales we never told will not persist.
How could he detail moments we've pressed tight
Between us where no alien hand can delve?
Minds meshed, joined through the windows of our sight,
Our molten souls, making one of ourselves?
No pen could write that silent history
Inscribed here in the book of you and me.
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