I know there is someone beyond you.
I know that on this level
you and I are not much more than concept;
you and I are a story, novella,
tragic and delicious,
two leaves on the rushing arm of river
briefly, beautifully dancing and overlapping
as though intentional,
but it’s just the water beneath us
drifting us in synchronicity,
the subtle choreographer,
the natural grace and disaster
sweeping us into overtone and unison.
Thank you for awakening my heart to this archetype
for the rush of color your definite stride has infused into the vacuum of my soul,
for the flavor of language you coat my mouth with.
Some days the question is resurrected
after I, we, do our best to lay it to rest,
pushing itself out of the soil again,
blooming insistent, biblical,
and each time I hear its case afresh,
look deep into your remembered eyes
and say to it –
‘no, I’m still not sure’,
but isn’t that just the way sometimes?
No clean cut-off,
no way to reintegrate all the frayed ends into total coalescence.
I can’t just resolve our story for good by saying ‘the end’.
This time I can claim no authorship.
It’s been weeks now since I saw you last
and your layered smile
saying that you want me, you’re sorry, you’re hopeful, you’re nervous, you’re torn
without even parting your lips,
and mine saying how good it is to see you,
and with duty we walk on
in separate but cycling directions.
When I imagine you and I
there is no earthy place we are,
no shared space but innerspace,
nothing tangible in the ways we’ve touched,
the body: shimmering hot like a mirage,
disruptable, reduced to vibration –
that’s no way to be human, love;
full of grace and potent as it is to exist in this tender heaven of our closeness
it is not the purpose of this life,
yours, mine, ours are lives
of purpose louder
than the ethereal clarion
that rises in the moments of our union.
Hold strong in this truth my beloved:
that some loves beg no consummation to be complete,
that some stories have no satisfying conclusion,
that I will still hold you dearly in my own heart
even when I do not hold you in my arms,
that if you feel sorrow or regret
know it’s just this path
which we can only take one of,
limited by our singular bodies,
and that somewhere just out of reach
we walk side by side,
and just beyond that space,
exist without separation,
wholly joined infinitely,
fleshless and without task,