Destruction after consummation because only the intimate can be destroyed, otherwise everything is line reeling without tension: The emptiness of endeavoring without reward is time wasted; not even love should be so self-deprecatingly, and unlovingly, selfless. But all things culminate, even the disappointments— most times it isn't "everything you thought it would be," and most other times it is nothing at all. And most times still, fantasies are just that. We are not our tribe with disallowing blood, but companions by chance found among the wreckage of someone else's empire, now desolate, searching for our own. Will our children find us again, like we found each other.
"...Will our children find us again,
like we found each other."
Only if we light the way, brother.
I did not know that you are a poet