firm, square breaths
It is a fair exhalation of relief. It is bones without sorrow, wailing and hollow, but full.
A river of marrow at rise, before flooding.
It is an atonement you would make for the salve of only one heart. It is fingertips at a scapulated cliff, just the sparking point.
It is twelve tones, uncontainable by a thousand pages of sonnets. No man, no woman, has ever captured it; the wildest of horses free.
Yet it is known by the singular Mind of Existence.
It is the only truism. The way everything defies gravity for the Sun. It nidificates in the very cell fibrous.
It is the pages of a book pressed to nostril, setting the olfactory afire. Memory ignition. Excessive movement washed away in calm.
The very fact that we have evolved a specific sense of sensuality in preparation for love. Deep Space of the psyche of romanticism.
Five tongues, a pentagonal linguistic code is spoken. The Third Eye, the Heart, and the Master Ear are all interconnected.
If it is a reality, it is also necessarily a fantasy; a dream made by the mind to cure itself of heartbreak. Which reality do we awake to when we find the cipher?
The wind across the top blades of grass, filtering a pattern of divinity in simple frequency.
She turns the page, with a soft, moistened thumb and firm, square breaths and I am at home. Pooling into myself as if the eddy is always the central calm of that river.
It is the only truism. The way everything defies gravity for the Sun. It is the only analgesic I’ll ever need.