You are a poem.
A composition,
an exposition of the Revelry,
a piece of the Mystery,
revealed
in each flick of hair
in each turn of phrase.

Just as no Sun can reach every leaf on the tree,
so can no one
illumine
all your crevices and curves,
but each question
brings me closer to the truth
 I see in you
feel in you,
it whispers out in your undertone.

I extrapolate
as we penetrate
the Darkness
with our Voices,
the places where we meet
become
Event Horizons.
“Divinity” means “sees no division,”
this life a revision,
 of our history,
our hierarchy,
our pedagogy.
 I ask and you only say:
"more color, please."

You are a poem.
Created anew each time I turn the page, take the stage,
say “yes” to the Mystery
and not the assumption
with just enough gumption to know when to tell me
 "no, not yet, we'll play more when we're ready."
This heady
presumption
of falling in love
is nothing
compared to the constant discombobulation
of a life lived in exploration.
- this theory, this question, this veil-lifting exercise:
Now that we are learning who we are,
and who is with us,
and what the world needs of us,
what do we do with our power?

Let me be your composition.
Tear down each of my constructs.
Let each of my limits be a word, in no particular order, threading past to future.
Each of my glances a clue,
each of my prayers a step closer to the mystery of you.

You
You
You are the poem.
A play of spiral and form and swirl and shadow
and color and light.
Asking that we grow each time we listen to you,
demanding that we pay attention
because we only get to hear you once.
 In this
magic
 now.

You say
"We are just flowers unfolding,"
and I wonder
how do I reach your stamen
without corrupting the petals?
I am no bee.
 My poetry
is too coarse,
too obvious.

I want all the life.

All at once.

 To dissolve in your ocean.
 To be so overwhelmed
by a single ecstatic breath of your atmosphere
that I lose all illusion of separation,
and become a million stars
in your sky.