Your eyes are soft when I tell you where I am going.
"I'm proud of you," you say, and to me it sounds like heaven.
The words linger on your lips, tasting of ambrosia.
But the sweetness of our joy is bitter with the future loss it accompanies.
And yet, when I see the honeyed chocolate of your gaze,
I don't mind that the future will be wrought with hell.
There is nothing so divine as our love.