Two souls are never close. As we
embraced, our minds were writing poetry.
She was writing a poem called Disgrace,
which had no words, yet, and mine
was done. I described her face.
I required no metaphor—
these always make one feel one has read a poem before;
my theme was beauty and novelty combined.
I had no comparisons to make—
I needed only her. The earthquake
struck and buried our two souls alive.
Bodies depend on souls more than ever.
Our bodies had been close. The souls couldn’t be.
It has something to do with finite space
and completion belonging to neither you nor me.