There are many human-shaped  universes

pressed against each other

like soap bubbles

so tentatively…

with connections built from delicate fibers

of love and blood

and words spoken softly.  I let my love whisper gently and not clamor for attention. You bend an ear to catch

and delicately pick up my thread.  This is how the connection is built,  like a monolith made from sand.

One tiny speck laid patiently on another. Each gesture, touch and word a brick.  Each smile and caress, mortar.

The body is illusion, like the sheen on still water,  with  a spirit brightly  juxtaposed.

This is what love is, the siren call of the soul, mine to yours, and yours to God.

and the rest is only muscle memory.

Ephemeral like a soap bubble, it lives for a time and then fades.

And yet the touch of your hand, your laugh, is my hold on this life. I look for you in every hour and desire this connection.

The divine simplicity of your skin on mine and how your voice serenades me with bliss.

This is how I see you, your hands wrapped around a violin, fingers splayed . Your music bursts note by note, clean and wild.

And flows around me in  sweet  rhythm.

We make our own divinity from moments like this.

Suddenly struck by how perfection is created from damaged pieces,

a beautiful sculpture carved from flawed wood.

I find myself curved into the hollow of your shoulder,

crying like a wild thing.

A heart broken by beauty and healed again and again.

We are circling what we already know, that beyond this moment there is another and another.

A spiral of significant events that forms pure reason.

Is this real? Are we souls in our infancy waiting for veneration?

I do not believe that time is so linear that we grow from young to old.

but rather abiding in a span of seconds and moments standing still.

And this moment, which seems so fleeting, is eternal.

I would find you again, love, and go where you go.

I will be steadfast and bestow my grace for the asking.

So we let this tenderness ripen, and try not to fear the close of our day.

And we build a dwelling of living connections that mirrors our pristine youth.

With the wisdom to grow innately into horizons of their own.

Not made but born, tenuously fragile and resilient.

This is a gift!  A becoming for which we were made.

To keep circling from beginning to end until they are one and the same.

And then to start it all over again.

This is what I’m thinking when I place my hand into yours and let my eyes meet your eyes.

And make my promises before the ones that made me.

That I have loved you before I was sinew and bone and that I will love you after I am dust in the corners.

That I will match my step to yours and fill my ears with your music.

And when it fades I will be at peace.

And wait until it swells again.

Dedicated to Keith.


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