TREE OF SYMMETRY
Because her name is a harp strum, because I've known her since the opening of this design. Days follow days down the corridors of centuries--millennia; and its never clear where the path may lead us. This stream of direction that perhaps finds us lost, guides us astray into one another, two mazes tangled into one, unsure of limits, boundaries, entrances, and exits. Whether we're coming or going, facing evolution or extinction, whether space is space and time time, I stand there with every uncertainty like an atmosphere over my thoughts, dancing with randomness and matching its rhythm, a language that fits my tongue...I go to where we're most solid, most rooted and open the back of my head and remove my very first thought, a reprint of the synapse, the wavelength, and the biochemical ingredients. I hold the thought with two digits, its the size and shape of a strawberry, Nerves like branch-like antennae stretching from it, reaching in all directions, hungry for sensation.
At our most concentrated, indistinguishable blend of labyrinth, where neither you nor I can tell one apart form the other, I bury my first thought--In the soil that feels like skin I find a pore in which to softly inject the fruit, the parasite, the yawning root of a desire's morning. I watch the microscopic sparks like a bacterial fourth of july, information declaring its independence, twining and wrapping itself within our convergence, appearing like a blushing bruise, slightly set aglow by every second that clots our past.
Because she walks my DNA like a spiral staircase; because my voice is her map and her hands my eyes; because we walked 17 cells apart onto the first fathom above origin--Because of the iso-tropical cancer of nature between two binding threads, it felt not as if I were offering her a gift but more like I was returning a part of herself she had long forgotten. This is our game, our pastime, she and I returning parts to one another, things that had been separated from us since when our lungs were made of wet clay and tongues made of fire and sand. From when dust grew to mist, collected into stems of chalk or cooled into sheets of algae. Because there was a moment when there was no us, simply because we were much more closer than that.
Within me for days to days, down the corridors of centuries--millennia; into the folds of cross-hatched infinities, I near the shores of definition by the elements she returns to me--Like jigsaw statues with each cell itself being a jigsaw puzzle within a puzzle, loving her is the meaning that no word could be the word for.