As I sit here, with a quill and this scroll,
I try to recount those moments we had.
The same moment we continue making,
The moments the future hold,
For you and I alone.

Rays in the window catch your face,
As if the heavens sought to shine on you.
Resting here, arms with yours,
I know of nothing better,
Nothing which makes me happier.

Was it fate, which brought us here?
The past seems so unimportant now,
And I wonder what of it mattered.
You've taught me that a man isn't defined by his actions,
But that actions are just a part of the man.

Flowers bloom in time,
And nothing blooms dead.
And if a fire's worth making,
It's worth making grander.
Many other things, which the mind does not recall.

So it is, with you as my muse,
I wait for you, arms wanting no other.
For, once we've had the best,
It's our nature to desire nothing else,
Save more of that same delightful taste.

Penned by my hand on the 10th of Aequitas, in the year 435 AD.