If there were words to describe your sort of beauty – though, here we are again, trying to anyway,
but were it possible – were it even infinitesimally possible to understand, much less describe your
closeness, your completeness, your overwhelming uniqueness – were that much more than a whisper of a reality, would it matter more than to grant fairly a moment longer before we allow our desires – those very things embedded in us since forever –
those awful, wonderful, magnetic impulses which ride like ocean tides among our DNA, those longings
placed to draw, to respond, to fall endlessly for you, would they less likely prostitute less wild lovers; would they cease being fooled by stone appearing flesh, by death appearing life?  Would they cease to control us and rather be tools for us to reasonably adore you?

 Strange things to ponder, but I’m at a loss for much else; with you lying so near, I can almost feel your breathing,
though I don’t hear your words – but just barely – supposing you are beyond words as I know them, even as you are beyond descriptions of any sort this fallen world does know.

So we are left with stories, and I won’t undervalue them, knowing that with these at least – these fables, these myths, these tales of the epic – we glimpse the faintest of echoes, and for one so overwhelming in beauty, an echo is enough; it is enough to bring us to our knees, to astonish deeply within, to lure the waking into the dreaming, realizing we were asleep all along.

 Always in this place, I can’t escape the sensation of your fingertips, like exquisite pinpricks upon the flesh of my heart, conjuring small droplets of blood, trickling upon a page, into words, into a story, passing eyes, shifting wind throughout the streets of the lonely, swirling into a vortex of melody, a song upon the world of us all, singing – how glorious the love, how gracious the hands, how endearing the face of the One we didn’t know we always knew – like a mother’s song, a sunset’s romance, a child’s laugh, a Spring’s aroma, a lover’s touch, and the fullness that comes, the approval that is known, the longed for acceptance we feel by the warmth of a Father’s embrace.

I dare not restrain myself from penning these words. To do so would be to deny my lungs oxygen.