The Art of Unmaking LoveGYJ
Naked, air on skin, an ecstasy of pain like earth just created, or a baby - a universe newborn, thundered with the first heart beat and the next, and the start of rhythm, defiantly finite- and that daunting silence between, where trust has no choice but to surrender its freedom in each passing knock on the door of mortal incarnation. Yes it burns us, this body as it rises in love, and falling in lust beneath itself, like fools, we would sanctify, break, or sleep-murder this prison of dust and earth, barring manifest descent, destroy it by again grasping at blissful sliding and acquiescence to flesh if we could believe it was ours again choosing physical life. Yet clutching and holding and keeping and containing soundings of death-bells from deepest yearning, every thrust of heaven announces a fated movement away - and space gets crueler then, as seizing pleasure we find agony of grief and open wounds and death and mortal senselessness in splintering pieces of earth, each inscribed with a letter of God that God alone may recompose. So we defer love, finding it stronger, deferring again, allowing our dissipation in emptyness and praying to find or feel how love could fill this blessed, cursed space between us, spreading out over planet, mercilessly unmaking the walls that cut between one soul and the next. This: the gift and condemnation of Eden, where newly expelled demigods declare how sacrifice makes mission cruel but feathered with fleeting moments of unholdable bliss. God, guide us into sublime permission to remodel ourselves as frames where love can blow upwards, downwards, around and on take this idiot mind I thought was mine and reformulate its base, let it prostrate humble before its own destruction.
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