Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps
a thousand choruses, sing the song
and what of this one life I have
and what of this great passion I have
is it enough?
it is enough.
it is enough to cry and laugh and feel that your insides are hallowed out, all stalactites and shallow streams
to feel that your dams are overwrought, that the hidden aspects, the way your lift your brow, the way you perceive mid afternoon light as if it were honey steeped in lavender tea. The way that from across a bustling market anyone could spot the rhythm of your stride. All of these peculiarities which distinguish the swallow from the dipper and you from yourself even tomorrow.
The nuances, which say that you prefer chocolate mousse to a whipped banana pie simply because the cells in your nose are connected quite differently to your brain today than they were yesterday. Because of a memory or a dream, because you heard spanish guitar while riding your bicycle near the Parc de la Ciutadella and felt that the world could be spiraling into oblivion as long as you could have this one moment.
It is enough.