a mirror that cannot close its eyes
to your longing. My eyes wet with
yours in the early light. My mind
every moment giving birth, always
conceiving, always in the ninth
month, always the come-point.
How do I stand this? We become these
words we say, a wailing sound moving
out into the air. These thousands of
worlds that rise from nowhere, how
does your face contain them? I'm
a fly in your honey, then closer, a
moth caught in flame's allure, then
empty sky stretched out in homage.
Rumi
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