The quaternary code, the winding staircase
of you, incommensurate in its beauty.
to think of the untold millions of mistakes
that have carved your intense fragility,
as if evolution brooded some billions of years
just for The Creator to unclose
(caressing carefully, mysteriously)
the first ever rose
Speaking of the first humans, when did
they meet themselves? Perhaps, it was leaned
over a sequined stream, a primordial mirror. Only the ripples
shimmered in the moonlight, fishnets entangled the stars.
You gaze sleepily into that stream
each morning. I love the skin and clutter
you keep secret. I wonder
how you look amidst the splintered images
of euphoria. I imagine your first reflection,
demonstrating your distinction from Earth,
from dirt and dust, yet revealing
your relation to everything beautiful:
Your eyes, like the refraction of light
through still, blue waters.
Your mind a horde of moths, swarming
around something dead or luminescent.
Your melancholy, the silver gossamer
spun by the rogue spider.
Your palms, the veins of a leaf,
your insecurities, the skin of a mink
I would hunt, conquer, then wrap myself inside.
And finally, your soul,
a black hole of pleasure
(while the rest of the heavens were bright)
forming the darkness in my sight.
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