How terribly like love:
this unknown
slowly eating at your bones while you tried to map its properties, the inexplicable way it delights your body.
decaying you fast as it decayed
backlighting your dreams from the glowing jar you kept beside your bed.
And what dreams they must have been--delirious numbers finally balancing out through the night; meanwhile your whole body a diagram of cleaving.
In the Panthéon, your twin grave is lit through the night, an effort to give, even now, familiar sleep.
© Isabelle Smeall