What is the essence of a too-brief kiss?
The rigor of reaching the
thing-in-itself,
from subject to object, chaos to bliss,
our frail intuition of heavenly
health?
Our love is not molecules, dumbly colliding,
nor is it knowledge, formal and
static
nor is it accident, reasoned and
plumbed—
it's real, meta-rational, soaring and gliding,
felt like an earthquake, bringing up
panic,
taking our parts and achieving a
sum.
The greater part of love is sacrifice—
flesh intermingled, tensing and
tingled,
this is the secret I learn from your eyes.
Giving my body, knotted, single,
tiny eruptions that come from my tongue;
plunging down surfaces, slicking the
flesh
thoughtless as leopards or
hurricane winds—
watching you shudder, watching you come,
rapt in the throes of an innocent
death,
giving my life to an inch of your
skin.
Thus, we trade in secure oblivion
for reckless reality, messy and
fleeting.
Such is the cosmos - creation, carrion,
motions of molecules merging and
meeting.
Nothing is lost but notions of self-ness,
hard ideations that close and
clatter,
rages of ego that strain at
their walls—
nothing is gained but a sense of the deathless,
"there-ness" of spirit,
"there-ness" of matter,
ultimate "there-ness"
that scares as it calls.
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