we're


3-dimensional and consider this form




of existence



more important



yet




lines of words



are




two-dimensional



and



they



immortalize us.

Your mind is an archivist's *******, I'd like to spend an indefinite amount of time there and observe the inner workings
like a astrologist, seeing your constellations of thought...
it also doesn't hurt that your stubbled jawline
seems to speak volumes, and I wonder
if it's chiseled proportions would mind me using them
as braille.
I'd like to know the caverns of your mouth
more intimately--
please whisper prose on my collarbones...
and I don't believe in love at first sight,
but maybe, love at first poem.

i.

Experience is subjective, but maybe it's like Jung said--
our collective unconscious shares our pain
even if we don't wish to do so.
Maybe we're not as perceptive to the hive mind in the duration of normality
but sometimes I feel it, I understand it,
the connections in my dreams.
we're an inversion to the universe,
one of many indefinitely,
Observing in our pocket of humanity--
trying to find a reason to be
that doesn't have a clear outward
manifestation.

ii.

I don't believe in purpose,
that's something we made up.
fate and destiny are not at subliminal lines of a universal intention
but what culture wants us to think.

iii.
I'm a cosmic accident, but I don't mind-- even accidents can do good things.

miracles are a religious experience, Jesus turned wine
into water--maybe I can get intoxicated
enough to not notice the difference.

lips that were shaped by cupids
saints could worship
and god did I worship
them--
from afar.
What can I do when
bible verses sound like
poetry on her tongue?
What else can I do when
her hips are my steeple
and I can't sully them
with sin?
The lines on her hands are
my koran
and I was so scared to ruin them with
my ***** palms that she was gone
before I could prostrate myself
before her,
in devotion.