The Earth is not enough for this,
the smoldering thing without mass,
with the closest in nature
being buds that break open their own lips
to show a flesh indescribable.
In the earliest, aching days of forming
this cracked dirt,
these seas boiling with tender expulsion,
magma squeezed toward air,
the massive rock quaked daily
toward a simmering,
and then the horrendous fires
brought eons of lush living.
These stale metaphors could never know
what would grow from that firm birth,
never know these human forms
and their swirling brew.
There is nothing terrestrial about ache.
It likely slammed into mud from the cosmos,
gas and ice burning through the sky
after gliding through sleeping millenia.
Love is, in fact, madness,
a killing lament not meant for any physical form.
And yet, here it grows,
the only thing celestial we have ever touched.
It was there in the beginning,
all that we needed,
but we missed its true, steeped knowing:
there were three in the Garden of Eden,
each pure, lonely, and suffering as anything under God.