Journey

The Hubble Telescope probes the space between my sternum and my throat, gazing into light years of luminous darkness, the distance of my yearning, filled with so many unknown galaxies and virtual suns, not even God knows how to contain them.

Deep in the empyrean of my chest, beyond the rim of wonder, astronomers perceive an infinitesimal pearl of brilliant bliss, its gravity waves sucking in and annihilating red dwarfs, old stars.

I will carry you there, over the eleven dimensions of quantum science, on the starship of my breath, through an ether of pure love. You will not survive.

Don't prepare yourself, you'll never get ready. Don't fast, it doesn't matter how much you've drunk, or how your knees are shaking.

Just climb through this mouth, dive into me, dissolve your name in the rapture of my glittering silence.

When the journey is over, I will ask, "Have you awakened? Who are you?" If you recount a story in time, full of deeds and accomplishments, you will be sent back.

For anyone whose ship lands on the surface of my heart has already died the perfect death. They know who they are, and they have no past to remember.

Now sleep. We will be there in 26 thousand years.

Yet for you, my beloved, whom I kiss and breathe and change into uncreated light, the journey lasts only as long as it takes to open your lips in astonishment.