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My Sun

The Earth has her Sun to give her life and sustenance,
I have mine: Your radiant smile, which fills my empty cave of existence with its lava of joy; the light of which flows like blood through my heart as it gasps desperately for that light of love.

The Earth has her Moon to keep her company,
I have mine: Your gentle hand, which is magnetically attracted to mine whenever you’re near me; which radiates its warmth all through my body from that one simple connection. Which, when I bring up to my face, near my lips, and kiss gently, my eyes pierce, and when they do, they see your face, and through your beautiful face, manage a glimpse of your soul.

The Sky has his stars to penetrate his lonely vastness,
I have mine: Your fiery eyes; each an ocean of emotion; sometimes lying pacific, yet at other times waiting for that last drop, that very last drop which solely is responsible for the breaking of the dam. The drop never comes, but your unspoken effort of keeping it at bay gives away its potential for destruction and chaos.

The Desert has his sand to clothe his stark nakedness,
I have mine: Your intentions. They’re as clean inside of you as when they leave the hand of God. The particle doesn’t exist that can muddle them through their long journey from His will to your nerves and limbs.

The Ground has her rain to wash away the dirt,
I have mine: Your words, which when you speak reduce the greatest mountain reigning over the Himalayas to the smallest pebble which finds itself a slave to the motion of the mighty water; which, when they emerge from your mouth clothed in the garment of your voice, eliminate all the noise the world ever created, resulting in silence only worthy of the Buddha himself.

The World has her night to deliver her some rest,
I have mine: Your arms, which emanate the most gentle heat through a million and one pores, all of which is received in longing by my cold and thirsty skin. Your arms, which envelop me and give a feeling of comfort equivalent to being stranded in the Arctic, hungry and frost-bitten, when suddenly comes your way a warm blanket from the majestic, high open sky.

The Man has his day to push and pull to the beckoning of his afflicted Will,
I have mine: Your divine face, which greets me every morning with a smile that stretches from one corner of your mouth to the other, with your eyes matched in perfect harmony to that smile, so that it seems to me every morning that I could devour you, and by doing so, take over the whole of the world and conquer it and bend it and bounce it on the playground of the universe and throw it into the farthest galaxy and catch it as it returns in the curvy orbit of your hips.

The Rainforest has his million branches and billion leaves to give him shade,
I have mine: Your jungle of hair, each strand of which curls down in such a random motion that evades the logic of even the most brilliant mathematician. Each sinewy wire which when I wrap around my finger takes me deeper and deeper into a dimension of thought, which I then penetrate by moving in cautious steps, spreading apart each vine that hangs from the ceiling of the sky while simultaneously stepping over the infant roots founded in the dark, rich soil.

At journey’s end the toil pays off as I discover the one location I had always dreamt of yet couldn’t confirm its existence, where I could go to lie in the fresh green grass and take deep, almost nauseating breaths of the crisp air; where I could hear the rushes of the ocean crashing against a hundred rocks which take me deeper and deeper into further dimensions of potentiality.

The rose that breathes, that quivers in the wind, has its thorn.
I am yours.

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