I can't help but to imagine your face.
I start at the tip of just one hair on your head,
and that is about as far as I ever get.
I try to conjure the taste of your breath;
but I get stuck at the word 'taste,'
I talk about the meaning of 'you' for ten minutes
and by the time I get to the last word
my mouth has forgotten how to breathe.
I said the "taste" of "your" "breath". Without your breath
I could not taste a thing, without your taste
on my lips, I could not take a breath,
all taste is yours, the taste of the tasteless,
without 'your', there is no life, no eye
can discern the veils of the word 'you,'
else the mirror and its reflection would be one.
Because of 'you' there is no me, only the aftertaste
of that first mortal kiss, and that first breath
after the beautiful death of a world without mirrors.
In the broken corner of this intersection between you and I
I am dying for a 'taste of your breath.' Let me die,
and remember the 'your' before 'breath' is deathless
Let me die, and become the breath of the breathless.