Apertures extending far beyond the reach of–
"What is normal anyway?" The more I know, the less I understand.
But I swear I felt infinity, if only for a moment, there in the negative space contained within your hand.
In pulse of this time, I can choose to lose myself in your arboretum, where I see lush visions of my life with you,
or else, I can erase imprints on my heart, chiseled by your fervent fingertips.
A sculptor like you, and clay like me, we mold.
But just as each creation has its own imperfections, I too, am flawed.
There are jagged edges from chips on the worn handles– you try so desperately to hold onto me.
Subtle distortions, the warped surface of the face.
This is the canvas by which all are supposed to judge, and the eager audience places their bids.
"You are sailing too close to these rocks."
As breaths escape me, I inhale a lungful of you, your quiddity is my oxygen.
My adobe heart fears nothing, it would char or collapse, for you.
If this is the finale, and we would rather hear the crowd explode in a thunder of claps,
before I part, one last time, would you let me coast my lips on your tainted edges, and breeze my skin against yours?
At long last, when the curtain is raised, stage shall be yours, 'normalcy', a cocky artist, must sit on pinnacle.
"I will not return."