Body molded out of onyx and ivory, mind impregnated with the Cosmos, lips as full as all the fruit tress, skin as smooth as the inside of coconuts, mouth as sharp and precise as a surgeon’s knife, this is all of you. Beauty comparable to the Heavenly figures, to the Bodhisattva, I’ve called you a goddess since I learned of your language and have treated you as one since love became a reality. I love you, spoken in Sanskrit across the stars, knitted into the womb of mothers so their babies may be feed inspiration. I love you, embroidered stories between us of how we met not in front of a pizza shop but during the birth of the known reality. You were the first, and I was built from dirt, from clay, from stone, from flesh, from tears, from the waters, I was built after. Not as a compliment but as my own being. And I repeatedly fell for you, over and over having my heart swell with these fantasies of you, of us. To say I miss you in any language, in any script would be an injustice to myself. I’ve loved you for far too long to stop now. For too long to stop now. Tell me, answer me these inquiries. How have you stood without Atlas? How have you gained fire without Prometheus? Isis, how do you not resurrect your love Osiris? Have you forsaken me for my sins? Have I transgressed against your will? Cosmos, do you not still love this Earthly body and divine soul?


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