The Only Ritual

The only ritual that matters anymore
is to press this unknown flower between our hearts
until we drown in the crushed fragrance that rises
from the fissure between yearning and delight,
the undulating hairline fault in the diamond,
a path for us who are made of light, leading
out of form and perfection, into namelessness.
It may be a rose, this flower, or it may be God.
But I will never know the way back to the garden
where I stole it for you, like fire.

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