When you walk through the door, the world rights itself on
its axis. It is irrevocable. Things make more sense when you are around. Something about the way your smile sits over
your chin; hips support shoulders and shoulders support a sort of gravitational
lens that brings everything into focus. Like
Animaxander’s cylindrical world, wobbling without a point of reference, you
right it like some cosmic hand. Nothing
makes sense except in light of you.
Like one of Harlow’s monkeys that never truly got the point, I can see
myself wasting a lifetime at some lactating stone colossus.
Maybe things aren’t as bad as all that. Back during the Jurassic, our distant
ancestors made a good living for themselves climbing trees and laying
eggs. Morganocodon didn’t care that an
asteroid was coming 70 million years in the future. Our progenitors just wanted to be happy. It’s a different kind of happy though,
accepting the universe as incomprehensible and life as ultimately
pointless. You are a roadmap, of sorts.
I take off your shirt and trace you to your logical conclusions, your pleasant
mammal-ness.
In some fantasy world of my mind, there are twin statues of
us, embracing in a marble temple. This
is the love we have built between our two souls; the storms weathered, promises
kept, rants carefully listened to, ledges stepped back from. Finally, after centuries in the dark,
starlight, clean and bright, shines through the glass of the observatory dome
above. Its spring and from a dozen
different archways, a flower-scented breeze brings the pneuma from a thousand
verdant worlds.
