Counterpoint

بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

I don't want you for a day, 

don't want you for a night, 

but I want you for all Time. 

I know it often seems, like I'm barely real, 

like every thing I am, is so hard to feel, 

while life is this razor, 

sharpened metal and cold, 

carving its impressions, its thoughts,

right down onto the soul,

poisoning your well

so you never find what you sought,

what would have you be whole:

yet here I am, the butter knife,

always seem to bend, 

trying not to tear, trying not to slice,

just there to spread the salty sweet,

across the warmly-risen hearts,

so their hopes will never cease.

can't say if I'm made from silver, or gold,

or some element yet unknown,

likely found somewhere in the stars,

that place where dreams are grown;

thus it is, I always yearn to be

what fuses Love with Reality,

not in some variation of the present,

but inside a Future's core

where you and I are destined.