Like a flipped-over puzzle to me,
the edges of your heartflesh—
regal pieces
of stained glass and veneer.
Who are you, love of mine?
Not my love;
I was never under
such delusion.
I map our trajectory
with sorrowful hands,
the topography of unrequited devotion
an elegy in Braille.
All instruments fail to measure
the weight you carry
in my bones. You would sink me
in the Dead Sea.
And I would live it willingly—
a fate of saturation—
if it offered permanence,
a way to hold you
in my cells like water.
I’d surrender the need
for land and air if we
could inhabit the dawn of time.
I’d cast off all evolution—
eons of bells and whistles—
if it meant
that you could be mine.
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