...measured...

How shall we measure it
Is it physicality?
The rush of blood through our members
The blush response
In tears then?
In long and languid sighs
When reciprocity is figured like an equation that ends falsely
An irregular sum
A null statement; the sum or product was false to begin with
Then what was this that was felt
Far to look backward, inward
If by feeling then how measured
For I felt and feel
In tears and sighs
My God how I apologize.  Measure it thusly?

Perhaps in works?
In poems and drafts and art
In sketches and of clay
How many to prove? 
Words as proof, as better parts where the whole may be lacking
I know I know
I know it like the song I capture in a sigh
The declarative made when ended in a tear stain
The ink run
But not far enough.

Is it time?
If it is not enough now, would a year suffice?
Is that how it can be proved.
Two or more.
Twenty?
If the sense of novelty can be stripped away in the nearness of now
Would then you see?
If, combined, I stack all these as a whole in two decades or more
And lay them at your feet and earnestly lie, a poorer comparison
would be proved
But the physical will pass as it should
But the art remains
But will it prove?  When I am gone?