My love for you does not exist,

For it cannot be.

For it to be, must mean it must belong

To some time and place,

To some tangible somewhere, to some version of reality.

If I claim it as my own, it must belong only to me,

Which cannot be.

And after all, which reality would you have me confine it to?

To this reality? This world of sense and smallness?

You would have me beat it to reduction?

Or densify it into visibility? So you may use blind eyes upon it,

So you may name it ‘my love for you’, and call it sure and safe?

You would have me claim it as my own, and not ours?

I cannot do that, for my love for you does not exist.

It cannot be. It is not.

Yet its magnitude, could not, would not,

be held fast in the feeble confines of this world.

There would be no room for its weightless gravity;

No space durable enough to cradle its submissive anguish

to peace. Nor to Rock its calm into a frenzied, reckless rage.

I cannot trap it here. Nor coax it to reside here,

Within some brittle walls of vain construction,

Where no human hand could hard enough whip

Its roaring silence until its deathly silence screeches and

its mute screams reach the deaf ears of oblivion.

There is no mortal death that could snuff out its vibrancy.

In its deep death, it is too alive for this world.

In its tenacious vivacity, it holds too much lively death to live here,

And in the scorching light of its life, the dark is extinguished,

And there is nothing. It is nothing.

For the light and the dark of my love cannot live here.

There is no life force capable of sustaining it.

So great that it could not be.

So entirely everything, that it could only,

ever and always,

be nothing.

It is so beyond life in its non-living that it is death itself.

beyond perishable, so dead that it can never know life.

You would have me try to murder my love?

So you can mourn at its empty grave?

And rejoice for the life you imagine it lived?

For all the evers through which time has flown,

My love can never know, yet knows all, all too well.

The never of my love would be the most present absence

So suffocating in its absent presence, it would devour,

And in its non-existence, would swallow up always.

The always here could not force its longevity upon its never,

Nor could the never of here destroy its perpetual foreverness.

It’s always is no moment, not ever, not even at all.

For in its lacking brevity, never is all time,

all moments, and all.

My love for you could not move here, nor could it be still,

For it is the sluggish-slow drag of the noiseless crawl

And the echoing shriek of purity,

at the mercy of the plummeting fall.

This world could not prevent its motionless plunge

into the unreachable depths of a life-lit pit

filled with the fluid of bleached black stone,

where depraved restraints hold virtuous freedom.

And you would have me blot out its innocence?

Strip it of its murky light?

And rape it of its radiant corruption?

So that it may lay it at your feet, life and deathless,

So you may fixed it there, and call it stable and purged?

It is a void filled vacancy; the most absent of presence,

So vast in its everything, that it could only be nothing,

And so singular, that it is everything and all;

All at once, everything and all, yet nothing at all.

Yet you, you would have me reduce everything?

And make something out of nothing?

You would have me house my love here,

In the illusory ramparts of this reality?

It cannot be, for it does not exist.

It cannot live here.