Creation of Adam

I stretch my fingers to you:

in turmoil, 

in a ubiquitous attempt to paralyze myself 

because you are there —

right there.

An ode to the luminous tranquility my life sucks upon;

an ode to the grief I enjoy;

and you vanish suddenly in the periphery of my own 

that a touch of wind 

scares me to death, 

but I turn around happily.

Your presence 

tastes better than my coffee. 

I look at you with eyes of longing

because you are the absolution 

with a formless shape:

a permanence, 

a dimensionless ghetto you are. 

Yet you exist 

beyond me and within me —

with every waking moment

as the light enters my lucidity,

the call of the birds 

fills my world with a hope I desperately crave

and a hope which flies by 

almost 

canonically:

I cannot hold it. 

The projection is the end of it all;

it is the end of you. 

You cannot be ordinary; I can’t let you. 

In trains and herds,

as a dream somewhere in lavender fields

pulls me apart

enough (enough, I say) 

to experience disintegration, 

and yet smile at the end of it; 

as the imagery of cold metallic strokes

embrace the warmth of my skin 

and all I have is a connotation of your existence, 

a rhetorical question I ask 

because I see you finally. 

Finally, I see you, 

but you are not here. 

How can you be? 

You are not ordinary. 

I vow in silence the prophecy of a sleepwalker 

whose solace lingers around 

ideas of truths

and meanings, 

and you are right there. 

Right there, 

but

you are the meaningless untruth.

I pass through you like air, 

and the brushes your existence makes on 

my arms 

sound to me like: 

“You are happily sad”. 

I look around and stretch my fingers. 

Take me to Eden.