Longevity, longevity, longevity. Longevity is plain as it rolls along the plain. Longevity defies erasure with habitual dull. The marks are centrally steady and still. Longevity isn't about disgrace. The same veins on its arms, the same inscrutable, slightly puffy face, annoying but beautiful in the same odd way, seeking platitude by night, the long, dull longing by day. What do you think of longevity's length? Is it cowardice or strength? Longevity's regrets pile up. The cracked, familiar teacup might be good for tea. Or paperclips fill it up. Longevity is stress-free, dreaming on tedium for its poetry. Longevity shall not---but is---me. Longevity has various lives. They all see mute life flee---thru lenses too thick and too small. Longevity's paragraphs tend to go on and on and on. The old poet admires the pawn snatched just before it turns into a queen. A game of slowness and skill! Something about longevity is never seen. Raise a glass to longevity! It was all for the poetry. I smiled for my safety. I was calm and steady. You'll never know. I am ready. I have the reflexes of a cat. I was captured by brevity. I waited and waited for you. For you. Only you. Longevity.