Tiamat

The meaning of life is to flout its finitude,

to create real moments that cannot exist in time,

to disprove, however briefly, their impossibility.

The world is superficial.

We live in a world of surfaces:

colours and shapes;

constellations named after gods;

pretty patterns with silly names.

So when I look into your eyes

when all they see is me,

and I witness infinite, terrifying depths

that have waited since the dawn of time

until this moment to consume us,

where an ancient and unruly monster stirs

whose conquest calms the tumult,

I claim we are transformed with a kiss.

You are overthrown at last, my Tiamat.

We withdraw from time,

the point is proven,

and you are suddenly so fragile,

a flower that blossoms

only within the scope of caress,

invisible petals unfolding,

the exhalation of your breath

upon the world’s surfaces

revealing secret colours

attuned only to my eye,

like rainbow colours shimmering

on the bubble’s skin

that contains the secret

world that we’re in.

I solemnly convey my reward

through this garden only we know,

to an overgrown altar of Tethys.

I lay this first kiss upon it,

upon the altar raised to you,

this altar that has existed for all time

only for this moment.

I sweep away the moss and fallen leaves,

the accumulated detritus and defilement of ages,

and complete the single, unrepeatable ritual

for which this altar will forever stand,

but, afterwards,

you bear the brunt of our burning love,

you carry its ash for us after I leave

amid the pain your flesh inherits,

among the world's assaults,

enduring storms to keep that colour

safe upon its delicate stem

concealed so that I may see it again

when I return to enjoy the illusion of calm

you let me take the credit for,

and I will never know the price you pay

for the miracle of beauty I witness today.

You are so fragile.

Not monstrous at all.