my hands have a life of their own

what moves them? 

it is certainly not i. 

or perhaps it is i? 

perhaps it is an i that i’ve denied.

ah, yes, that must be it. 

the scope of the inner horizons is as infinite as the macrocosmic wonders

i receive impressions from the great beyond

and despite their movement at light speed,

it is from a long-dead star

a distress call. 

far, far, far too late.

echoes across this void

this great universal hall

how can any of this even be? 

physicality itself is a web

our spirits are flies entrapped. 

let’s make the best of this bondage while we can. 

can i at least have a hand 

to hold 

while i’m suspended here? 

can we laugh together 

as the weaver comes 

to swallow our memories whole? 

will our candle flames in infinite 

be snuffed simultaneously? 

i’d at least ask,

that our grip 

on each other’s hand

is so great

that we go together

when the time comes. 

i’ll swear it to you

if you swear it to me. 

love is the flame of Prometheus. 

for what other source of light and warmth

exists in this great void? 

what else could thaw the ice over our hearts

no, 

i’m not crying — 

those tears are simply the ice melting, that’s all