Root and Horizon
[Venus]
I begin in the marrow,
a pulse beneath the skin,
the tremor of fingers
brushing dust from stone.
The earth remembers me
in the taste of iron and rain.
[Uranus]
I begin in the distance,
mapping the sky into patterns,
naming stars after forgotten kings,
threading myths across silence.
The horizon remembers me
in the way it bends toward night.
[Venus]
I speak in warmth:
breath caught on cold glass,
the ache of closeness
that refuses to vanish,
even when the window frosts over.
[Uranus]
I speak in echoes:
histories folded into stone tablets,
laws written on wind,
the scaffolding of time
carved to hold her breath in place.
[Venus]
But my body insists,
all flame and saltwater,
that love does not wait for permission.
It spills, unruly,
like rivers tearing maps apart.
[Uranus]
And I answer:
let the rivers rewrite the atlas.
Let the constellations redraw themselves
to follow the current of your pulse.
What begins in marrow
becomes the measure of worlds.
[Together]
Between root and horizon,
between breath and banner,
we are the axis:
she, the seed breaking earth;
I, the sky bending down.
In that crossing—
a whole universe opens.
.