Here you are, the other, myself.
In the terrifying rupture of seamless silk, so finely woven, it feels eternity had us in untraversable unity, and now all is lost and losing.
This pain is truer and more alive than eons of human misery.
Love shocked in apparitions of cruelest hate, as the gap between us relays outcast truths and something beneath the finest kiss of life declares the dissolution of the wedding vows of time and space.
Here you are, my other, myself.
How could I anoint you?
With a poisoned chalice, or betrayal in a kiss?
With impoverished vapors of contempt, or with a nudge toward eternity’s cliff-edge of the irredeemably condemned?
Can I rage over the nasty requisite of your humiliation?
Will I demonize the ground cursed by your human feet?
Will I recruit the mob to bring you down, down, down, oh perpetrator of impossible pain?
Here is the cynical twist, where the unbearable agony of being apart curls into the seducing dream. Evil: the consummating kiss of all aversion.
How will I reject you?
I cannot even fear you.
You are the kernel of a nut promising trees of endless bounty.
You are the rotting flesh feeding the exquisite gardens of creation.
You are the wintered flower foretelling springtimes of preternatural presence.
You are the coastline cavern engendering space for the primal ecstasy of salty, explosive waves. Your very contours are carved and stroked by baptismal seasons of elemental love.
Wilder than the night, yet – like death itself – familiar from a billion finite passages, you are known to me, my enemy, my friend, my bright star of hate, my lover, myself.
Intimate and infinite in this everlasting instant of sensuously seeing through you, seeing through me.
Here you are, my lover, myself.
