Our eyes are love, my love.
Loving you, I love and become love
and so become you, and so love myself.
I love I—a simple thought
in closeness (to that) which truly belongs
and gives itself to us all.
Though the infinitely recurring
empty distance lying in between our eyes
ripples concrescently accelerating waves
of deadening nothing across this dreamy
fusion for which I hope. They sweep a plague
across its vulnerable pastures, blank its
evolving light, and shed in gray the plains
that could, that might, burst in bloom
of colorful dawn. The empty distance
sends the nothing rippling through my
liquid soul, and brushes painfully the core
of its eternally lonely water.
I cannot speak to you as I would wish.
My tongue, my moving ocean of flesh
cannot righteously carry the sails of my
unutterable voice to the safe shores of
your ears. My torch, my light, my eye
is with yours so impalpable, shrouded,
fit to glean but only the most jagged edges,
the sharpest points, and our deepest caves.
But I love you, and so, bravely, I will love
our eyes, together—inscrutable flames,
distant stars that burn closely in the uncertain
black of our skies. You will take light years
to reach me, but if you had not already,
I could not be here, now, waiting for you.
You reflect off my skinned soul
and I am what returns to you, light years ago,
as the birth of your own eyes.
I can stare into the abyss of sky and not flinch.
But the depth of your eyes, my love, trembles
stillness itself. Makes the distant star in my eyes
burst in birth of bursting stars.