How is enough measured?
Is it through intervals of silence?
Is it by reading the words?
Is it feeling fulfilled or fallen?

Did the warning drown within ignorance?
Did the suspicion erode into a spectacle?

Nature never provided a plan.
Cyclic of life and death,
Existing between the first nurturing kiss
And the last consuming passion.

Measured in breaths rather than time,
Released in its grieving
And held in a vault of secrets
Where what dwells is the enough.

The unknown is abundant,
Coming together within the space of imperfection,
Both with the ruined and the tender,
Enough is being vulnerable,
Enough is embracing worth.

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