From what I know about the human heart,
it must be made of something malleable:
pliant when young, springy (at least in part),
supple, elastic--sadly fallible.
From what I know about the human brain,
it must be made of somewhat firmer stuff,
so facts and figures etched in will remain
forever, so long as there's room enough.
And yet as I get old, a paradox:
things graven on my memory disappear
like words from wind-worn, ancient desert rocks,
getting fainter and fainter year by year;
Yet my love, writ on water, somehow stays--
miraculously, magically, always.
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