What is lost to us haunts the oblivion of our minds into a daunting eternity. it escapades our souls, our makeshift realities; internally; externally. But all the same understanding of what we cannot make reason. Thusly dubbing abstract explanations the only sensible bough. I think of this to you, my future love I know not of:

I would kiss you back,

and hold your face in my hands,

run my fingers through your hair,

and hug you for an eternity.