Ah Love, tonight our laughter competes with an astonished muteness: looking within, amidst these flashing worlds so cyber-paper thin, there is no place where “out” leaves off and then begins as “in”.
The firelight brightly reflecting from your golden woven necklace, glimmering around your throat while you lay sleeping, is more than enough to take my breath away, but not before your subtle smile raises Love’s ante higher than any love songs can portray.
The sublime peace of some exquisite heaven serenely wraps around you as you lay here, barely breathing, waiting to be born again, waiting to reveal the very purpose of coming back to life again.
A secret once was shared with us:
“The way we make love
is the way God will be with us.”
The Great One, Love Infinite and True, now approaches Itself in the form of our bliss to marvel at Her own reflection, while you stir towards me, redolent with the bouquet of your ecstatic perfume, reaching out from the happy nowhere place where Shiva-Shakti welcome us with the fragrance of jasmine-petal water streaming, steaming languidly down Love’s breasts, lingering between the inhale and exhale of an ancient smoldering passion, then thrilling to the tasty jazz improvisations riffing on the luscious smitten breezes of our open laughs and lovely licks!
Without a second thought we gladly give it all up, all the masks and theatrical costumes — now goodwill donations, humbly offered from the gratefully dead. Perhaps there are some who would want these clothes. They may try them on and get the cardiac surprise — there is nothing, nothing! Nothing but a paper poem crumpled in a pocket.
They take it out, open it, hold it to the light, and read. What it says is what it says, and what it says is: