Made

Here is a lie you made me in your love reject, a thought once felt: I chronicle the chaos of the ill-reasoned images from sleep in uneasy elliptical motions, a true orbit defying geometric simplicities. Unsure of the meaning snared in mild spasms of shock while sleeping, fatigue supplants vibrancy as the normal state; pragmatic dicta usurps passion. Beauty becomes something to weep for but never over: the nexus where condition and being vanishes arises. Only the collation of experience is left; to be is to catalog. When then the chaos? the agency once implied?

Unity defies chaos and in our hearts, yours and any who have heard you, and whatever your guise times long gone but still to come, we always knew it. Unity is truth; disunity, the easier thing to understand precisely and paradoxically because it conforms to staid, rigid shapes, never accounting for the passionate creation and recreation, and transmutation of life. Because we feel we cease to understand in the sense that can matter when either or both are at stake; and that is always. Unity has been one of your great gifts to me.

I love you more than I can ever express, Brandi. You are the finest thing in this finite world. You define the parameters of my existence; and I am grateful.