You are the forty 7 sided polygon that I do not presume to understand. You exist in dimensions above my own.
You exist on planes beneath.
I beg

Beg to be a fly
Just to crawl upon you

the Sistene chapel of you

To kiss my antenna
Against your skin
And test the scent  of your solitude

Strange
How the fates have spun
Eleven threads that did not cross
But once

Our fibers touched-
And I lowly spun


When once our threads did touch