if only
if only she’d allow it
if the universe would let, me
proceed,
in,
fourth
forward
beyond
let on
but her inclinations,
purely platonic
academic even
fore I am a study of my own-
undoing
I feel the earth’s tectonic plates
vibrate, and shift from under us
Pangaea, no more
for many lines count our differences
life making us more separate, than one
insurmountable odds erected as relative truths
as we navigated a planet’s gravitational pull
towards the ebbs and flows evenness
though harmony eradicated
chaos inflamed
and balance, radical
I’d all the same, succumb
traveling to my ending
engulfed by the gaseous flames of a star
a Phoenix, she once called me
does space have eyes?
can she see me in my ship
traveling through her?
will she ever tire of my trips?
she’s so vast, I wonder…
if she’s even fully conscious of her expanse
the limitlessness of her reach
all that she encompasses?
I mean, it’s so much to be aware of at once
and I, a lowly stargazer
obsessing over horoscope prophecies
signs, symbols, and depth, my love language
a sucker for the intrinsic nature-
of subtleties and extremes
the organic polarities and dualities of life
which sows me in their womb
the nucleus of where art’s creative powers
weave a cosmic design
and her pen draws my gaze
the sway of her cursive literally places stars
I believe she sees more than she lets on
how could she be blind,
when she writes with four l’s?
as if a pair of lenses,
adorn her visual senses
intricate, intelligence, intimacy, and intuition
so long I’ve romanticized her Galaxy
this vast universe of interconnectedness
exploring our interdependencies pre-written in stars
a soul grid of scatter plot dots
bedazzle a belt that trails space with no point of origin
oblivion and beyond, my affinity of her infinity
as one still seeks, can he ever experience serenity?
she’s settled within the canvass of cosmology
but I dare desire entrance
to her mythology of cosmogony
the jointed ends of her bones-
etched lines between stars
creating a zodiacal story narrated by her anatomy
I’m just a spaceman
fantasizing of creating less space
between us two
or of a space defined
for just us two
if words could draw a picture
she’d paint it
and we’d call it art
because art isn’t lived
it is only created, to be observed
at least that’s what I tell myself
and maybe this is why
the creation fire of attraction, still persists
at least that’s what I tell myself
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