If there was a beginning
She was of emptiness
nimble hands created her skin, and
she existed as geometric perfection
even yet, this was not the beginning
bare planes of existing space
cantilevered between
oeuvre revolutions
his gaze and hands move over her
A lacuna in perspective
attempting to stroke
waves of sound
between the white
stubbornly staring at each other
instantaneously spending
twelve lifetimes
waiting for god
their names devour obsession
fervidly arguing over language
Her denial cuts across his mouth
and he bleeds on her bones
tip-toe dancing
between
torture and passion
visionless white eyes
thought whose chains are blank hands
We write our minds naked
until blinking and rubbing our eyes
finally see her stretched skin
permeating last light shadows
defining contours of her shape
his hands become her eyes
they sway into a triumphant rhythm
he moves around her
fixed on naming an idea
though she is not yet born
he sets his feet
he relaxes them again
languid paces back and forth
folding into the all of her form
writing pieces of himself
in a layered language
only they can understand
unspoken promises
in pales of a whisper