Lately, the pangs of a human love have laid claim to me.
In the humid atmosphere of flesh and frailty
I have lost my head.
Never so aware of how thin the barrier between blood and air as when
I lay against your skin in the dark.
How, under the working together of malleable sinew lay the soft movements of your human heart and science and knowledge and my perfect denial of what is true could never undo that mystery.
That one day the beautiful balance between each fluid exchange,
each expansion of breath,
each faultless signal sent in unbroken succession from thought to action;
that the sum total of what is physical could so readily be disturbed,
the truth of this I can no longer disavow.
Without the shelter of supposition,
where I can I hide my fears for you?
They are my bedfellow as much as you and until your body,
beaten and bent to the rod,
gives up your ghost,
I'll never be released from fear and desire both
for all your cherished and mortal imperfections.
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