this is not an ending

In an interlacement of slow caresses, the hands of two lovers seek each other, pursuing the desire of a lasting present moment. The fingers trace drawings that remember childrens counting games, but in a metaphor, two becomes the natural beauty of instinctive passion in the memory of the first love, three is the rational fulfilling of the feeling between the couple. The fear and insecurity of the outcome of a bet, in the echo of the promise of an eternal instant. Love is forever because of being love in itself. This is not an ending.