I thought I understood it, that I could clasp it. But I didn’t, not really.
I thought I had grasped the cellophane clearness of it, the blanket softness of it, the color-splashed canvas of it.
But I didn’t, not really.
I don’t know,
will never know.
What is left of what was--is different from what could have, what should have,
but isn’t.
It's precious time is devoured into sections of quarter pasts and half pasts;
in the past to be known now as mere memories.
I thought I understood it.
The pureness of it, the tenderness of it.
But I didn’t.
Not really.
Only the idea of it. 
Only the fondness of it.
The adoration of it. 
The desire of it.
Not the love of us; of Me in love with You, and
You in love with Me.