Refinery.

Soft you may touch me with graces and airs and well placed smiles insinuated between winks and hair flicks. I have mistaken you. Beautiful shadow. Our eyes meet, I see you. I see me. Hello, loyal friend.

hylas-and-the-nymphs-1896-d-1
Hylas and The Nymphs (1896), John William Waterhouse

I once peeked behind the veil and threw mystery into the relief of light – looked back at my reflection in flesh in the dead of night, yet did not see the mirror.

I believed I had unveiled you. I believed you were distinct from myself – and, later, that in letting a sleeping dog lay, your mystery would remain more beautiful. And, still, a mystery you remain. Yet, thankfully,  I learn more of you each day. The more I learn of me the more I learn of you. I thank myself for your beauty, and thank you for your frankness, dear child. Let’s play.

Like the space that sits quietly and patiently between music notes on rickety old pianos, your presence in my life is pregnant with a divine wonder – my own, mirrored dumbly back at me.

You, woman, belong to a garden. There you would smell sweetly with the orchids, exploding spring-cherry trees and frangipanis. Kissing the air on its cheeks as it wafts by and upwind to me – rosy red. The garden ought to be your domain, and not a man’s bed. There you would be but smelled, picked and discarded like grey bath water when done. Yield to the sun, and not to your desire. Open to each day, and not to met expectations. Fall with the rest of the leaves come autumn, when it is time to do so. The God awaits you.

The sun has woken up from winter sleep, and beats down upon my back, doing the job of the sun. Just as the warrior awakens, now, from ignorant sleep. In discipline, I train. In fertile soil, I grow, and soon, too, will I join you in that garden where after blossoming we might die in union.

Between now and the illusion of that auspicious end (there is no ultimate death), I accept life as but a divine refinery, cold pressing me through stone-hard walls, shaving off my corners, and letting the excess drop to the floor at my feet as I am processed through perfection until, like a polished ball, I shine beautifully. I am reborn. I integrate. You disappear. You are integrated. The Man has arrived.

I want you in flesh but I do not need you and I take only what I need so you shall remain untaken by me. You will not be smelled, or picked, or discarded like fingernails. Instead I shall quietly honour you as I quietly honour myself: you will be cherished. In time, together, too, we will unravel ourselves like Christmas presents to each other. Having sat, waited and watched: the boy has disappeared, the Man, in turn, has passed – here, my love, is the God.

And now:
To us,

– M.

creacic3b3n_de_adc3a1n_miguel_c381ngel
The Creation of Adam, c. 1511-1512, Michaelangelo

 

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