Draco interfecit se ipsum, maritat se ipsum, impraegnat se ipsum

Alchemie der Aegypter

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The brush of my lover’s hair. Bliss itself confronts and pulls me into only her exploring eyes. She pretends to be a couch bum. But I worship every wheat field fiber of the sofa she has without first thought touched. Her outstretch is my bokeh. Her happiness is my focus. She is my golden mean. I frame her continually. And crop all else out. Losing nothing. Gaining perspective. 1st century. My hands must hold her. She must know her adore I forever hold. She is my investment. She is what you cannot acquire with any return. She is the purpose for all money. Since the inscription of currency. She is the symbol and medium agreed. She is the ethereal behind the scenes. Unexchangable. There is no celebrity or presidency or power or residency I would accept, embrace, or trade in place of her. All of my belongings can burn. I will dance with her by the fire. And hope it warms her soul. She is value. Quality. Unquantifiable. I cannot measure her. How does one measure love’s reach into a lover. It cannot be done. There is no object that large. That epic. Save the universe. In which her presence is already proof. That love is as real as her closed-eyes smile. Shining sister to sun. As she shifts her soft cheek into my cupped palm. As if to say. Craft me that unpurchasable reality. Describe my mystery. Try and resist me. And I cannot. Completely. But I do not try. Gladly