Watching you fragment, pixelate
Into a million fractals, and then
Slowly morph back into your original mold,
Like the imprint of your body on my bed,
I suppose you did leave something behind:
Deep-seated depressions on atoms and corks or
Whatever those things are called.
I'm not a scientist but
I observe your mystery every single day.
Like when your hair curls into half-moon labyrinths,
It reminds me of the way Earth must have looked
Billions of years ago, shrouded in black,
With some invisible breath rippling its oceans.
You're not some seismic event but
I held your hand and my own oceans
Teemed with living creatures. It was enough
To make my own straight hair raise itself and
Twirl like octopus tentacles in the steep depths
Of whatever that feeling was.
I guess one day I'll ask
These depressed mattress springs to
Share their own small deaths with me
And serve me your mystery
In the salt water I'm drinking
From this cheap electric teapot.