When is the sunset?
Is it the moment the sun touches the hilltop and flares brightly for a moment,
as when you first kissed me
and I - weak in the knees -
had to hold you strong moments longer
until I could again stand on my own?
Or is it when the last ray dips behind the hill,
when the last email is sent and
I know there will be no reply;
when the last kiss is identified
only long after the fact?
Was it when I walked away still clinging to the last high rays pinking the clouds?
The light between one and another moment spans
space and
time and
memory and
thought.
It's here.
And it's gone.
A realist would say the sun is both always rising and constantly setting.
A realist would say the sun moves on.
And so, I suppose, must I.
At long last light, so must I.
