In a conversation, or a moment, I find such joy or profoundity that I don't want it to end. I suspect the hours ahead, what unravelling or tarnishing they threaten. How can I make this moment last? This moment, I hold onto, in holding gone - as a flake of frost melting in the vice of my grip. I whisper, this moment happens. This moment happened. This is all and this is fixed. Wherever I am, wherever I will be, there will have been this moment. Inviolable. Frozen and never stolen.
But I do not know.
And I wonder, if I died, now, would it last? And if that moment were my last, would it take precedence over all before it, all future breezes that were annexed by its finality? Or would it like a passing day, the ghost of May, go? And would any and all go with it? Or in my cessation the time could be fixed like amber, the world contracted with the close of my eyes, the sound of a thousand tomorrows and yesterdays snagged by a noose just grazing against the bottom of my ears. Something lost, something found, somewhere out there, a world resounds. Is this finality?
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