Notes From an Inside Observer

Yes, I love her.
Everything she touches turns to gold.
Even my poor sinner’s soul
under her gentle sculptor’s hands
becomes a bronze romantic.
She is a whirlwind, a spirit blithe.
She can turn forever and ever.
I would give anything to be just a tangent
to her infinite circular grace.

Yes, I love her.
She’s omnivorous, synthesizing, muscular, light.
Not for all the world could she slow down,
could she sink in orbit to this dark center
where I lie curled to anchor her.
And I love her all the more
for every rotation she completes.

Yes, I love her.
Of course I do—
she was made to be loved.
But each time I gaze into her glow,
my eyes inexplicably (please, make it stop!)
begin to mist over.
Forgive me for the betrayal of my lungs.
Forget the sound of my sobs.
Fracture me to any minuscule size;
so long as she never stops soaring,
so long as her light never leaves.