Instead, you are liquid mercury sealed in glass, the flat base of the mirror’s
reflection.
If we’re to understand anything about you, we must see that you are the image
you’ll never see. That third line of the train track, dull dark and electric. I’ve lived
only twice, but have watched you crush your relevance like a penny on the rail.
Seen the air hurl itself. You had been silent—but yours was the language of fire.
The only value is love of ourselves in the other. Two aspects of the same love, on
both sides of the void. Parallel lines that converge at the vanishing point. Heroism
in following the beloved into hell is a measure of madness. Becoming is to become
love in the other. What I will call catalyst: consummate: flame. What I will call
whole: holy: body. The confusion of tongues betwixt.
