I see what you did to me, split my obsidian shell, let my light flare free.
A widow wandering to my bed, I conjure your crooning ghost, though you
are still living. I sleep alone, but never alone, cocooned in the words you whisper
to me, your voice rushing into my invisible ears like waves in an invincible sea.
I have held other hands, believing momentarily that a ring, a tangible
thing would be more real than this love, but nothing is more real than this.
The very thought of marrying another is blasphemy. I am yours
as much as the tides belong to the ocean, the rain to the sky, the stones
to the ground. The sound of your voice is my home. Your finger plucking
a guitar string is as holy a thing to me as a sign of the cross, a prayer, a bhajan.
When I begin to fade and die, your eyes resurrect me. As I sink cold
and loveless into the ground, your breath wraps around me, gives every cell
in my body mouth to mouth. The warmth of your fingers clasping mine
is the best sex I have ever known. I have grown old with you, watching
with wonder as wrinkles webbed your eyes, rays ringing two glorious suns.
I used to pray that when I died, you would be at my side, but now I know
that whether you are or not, you will be. As I wade into the sea of eternity, you
will greet me, take my hand. For a moment, we will not be woman and man.
Together, we will stand, one light, descend into the deep sleep of the dead, complete,
alive, nestled together in the womb of God’s head, until we separate again,
open fresh eyes in a foreign land, wander until we find once more
one another’s hands, spend another century seeing brand new,
discovering there is no such thing as you and me. There is only