Falling in Love

by Steve Rogoff

They speak of a falling in love, those who know of such things. They speak of a descent, implying depths or a journey inward, towards some core beneath or within where such things as spirits and souls might reside. This surface world has lost its magic, they imply, despite sunsets and cinnamon. Love is too sacred for this littered surface of mere mortals, its sanctity hidden where clouds cast no shadows and tilted rains never find.

But with her it is more of an ascension. As if a rare lightness pierced the planet’s shell and kissed our shared bones, it fills them with the purple glow of stardust. I breathe it in as she exhales, an arcing bridge, the haze of infinity, stars cast into clouds. I sip from her waters and bathe in each word, stare in awe at the depths raging still behind eyes. In her I forget myself. In her I see me. She colors my dreams and shakes me from sleep. There is a buoyancy to these waters, these breaths, this thrill of watching the steam from our coffees blend together and then disappear into the blue light of morning. It lifts me from within, pushing out from behind these ribs that swell in my chest and draw me up like a magnet, up above the green sea of treetops as they sway, their dancing needles the voice of the wind.

This love is a shared secret, a silent scream. Bliss is but thorns for those outside of its light, whose fingers never cupped her flame or, worse, let slip her transience through. In the space that trails off from these passions is compassion’s sea, and for their sakes alone our kindness swallows our howling screams, transmitted instead in a look or the grace of her touch as she reaches for the sugar. Yet the heat from this single hearth justifies by itself their lonely streets and eternal nights, their colorless lives of affliction. And so for them as well as for us we tend it’s cobalt orange glow with the care of an army of monks whose single meditation is to make gods of its warmth. Every lapping flame, each flickering finger that dances in yellow before its vanishing, the basking radiance of each tiny pore across every millimeter of naked skin that contains us, committed to memory, embraced with our entirety, amplified into our every gesture and word and thought like antenna that purify humanity’s ugliness into a broadcast of the beauty we once were, still are. Like wax, these skins they turn to rivers that flow freely, liquid honey kissing the tongues of every man and woman and child that has left footprints on this life.

These walls that once divided have dissolved, leaving only this liquid light that fills us, ever connected to the source. That which once filled now floods, stirs in swirling currents with neither beginning nor end, brilliance cast nor shadows between, dualities collapsed into a singular beauty as bright as a million suns. This is the nectar of humanity, this the arc, the grail, the way and the light.

We breed fresh colors in the space between our gaze, these shimmering waters reflecting permutations of crimson aquamarines, indigo nebulae once too distant but only now seen. Words fall like song. I lean teetering off the edge, suspended and bare, each next gift a miracle that spills from her pregnant tongue or kisses my skin with her touch, a breath on my neck, the smell of her hair in the breeze of her turning head.

Every moment in her presence is the finger of God on my heart, melting skin to holy dust as it lifts up and dances spirals in the currents that flow around and around until we two are but one, we too are all one. She and I have passed on. Above you and the rest. The trivial details of that other world shrivel up and decay like fallen leaves, the wet compost of spring. This love was a seed that somehow snuck in, somehow took root, somehow stretched its delicate green tendril into the concrete fatigue and weaved into the double helix of our fates that are forever hence shared. The tendril has thickened, penetrated this Earth with roots that congeal its dirt that would alone crumble, stretched vertically into a web that pins down the sky and its heaven that would otherwise float away.

She has filled all my cracks and opened my days, transformed night’s neglect into fleeting instants in which I may bathe in her still moonlight. In a word, she completes.

Yet as these words fall I see them as false. I wonder how long you too have seen their hubris, transparent and brittle. This physical world has its laws. And such divine heights barely linger, a moment frozen, the thickness of a column of water before its descent, lightning in three dimensions, her eye when it blinks.

And perhaps that explains why they speak of a falling, in love.

Philip Brautigam
grow@beseen.media
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