You are The One:

let me tell you about the reason for being made.

These eyes given to me, these things I look upon

in the focus that remains

within the textures of imperfect light -

there is only your action:

all else peels from view.

How you glow, even though the night falls in my soul.

Even as I grow immersed in the dark, you glow. Your soft

smile breaks even as my clouds gather.

One cloud. Two. A storm. A rainy fortnight -

a flood of Noah.

You await my return: shining; gleaming.

I depart, to climates that you never know

exist in me: fields of precipice; oceans full of caves;

infinite tunnels of bones and decay; wasteland

upon wasteland upon wasteland...

I long to whisper faintly,

so faintly that only you should hear me -

not gods, nor angels, nor nearby pines

with their needling ears -

so faintly that I should not hear myself.

Perhaps I would say, my love,

that our love is a flower

with grim petals - that they are closed forever -

dying without blossom on the stalk.

With your love's small hands

a spirit is rebuilt,

bedrock

to cloud-crowned summit

the royal earth rises,

fountains up,

spills over, climbs

the ladder of itself -

an upscape;

an outscape -

a mountain fills

a void upon the earth.

It is like this:

the ray is stable.

It holds space,

shines with perfect stasis, but that

is action. We are

the inactive ones,

we who circumnavigate;

so often forgetting our motion.

As the gods intended, the core of my old soul

pulses with your ancient light. Even now,

your vivid energy fountains like a supernova,

and you, inside me,

gleam with a new life.

You are my new star, and I gaze

upon you with curious eyes.

Yet inside yourself, darkness falls

like an iron veil: your spirit is a damp stone,

and your hands hold a thin warmth.

Often, you cast your light over the precipice

of your longing, peering for another's face.

The harpoon of old sorrows

strikes too deep for consolation.

Let me make sacred once again

these crimson scars that roar your grief.

The dark songs that hide in you like angry thieves,

jeering your pale name; crouching

by the thin road of your weakness;

let me cast them out with a ringing reverence.

This fierce music bursting

from my fingers

is more audible than "touch" connotes,

it fills

each cathedral of your breasts,

aura spreads - from the outside in -

hands become

the habitat of higher gods.