A fragment on love

I do not even measure time in minutes and hours and days and weeks any more, but in hearing from you: every time is a heartbeat and between lies an eternity. It is the same every time, my torture repeated, living for moments that are as fleeting as the silence between them is deafening. Were the heartbeats to stop, what then? Would I die, would I find absolution, would I find apocalypse or apocatastasis? I am just another impotent prick, chasing flashes of light (oh, but what a warm and bright glow you are) like a moth, stumbling and fumbling around spectres of a thousand false moons. To everyone seeing through the illusion we moths do look like complete fools. But know this: their self-assuredness is itself nothing more than illusion.