First Aphorisms

I

I do not write mere words: they are a gathering of metaphysical vapour condensed into an ice cube of language.

II

Not for infinite cosmos, nor eternal time, would I trade for a single crystal fragment of your tear.

III

The softness of your fingernails etches ever so deeply into my cheek.

IV

Between our palms lies such radiating love compressed into a common pebble.

V

"Whatever can be spoken is dead." Hence I hear not your speech, but your voice, your music.

VI

Only when we look into each other's eyes do we capture the fleeting shadow of our identity - but how often do we dare to do that?

VII

That momentary gaze is joyous as a perfect circle, incomprehensible as a two-sided triangle, and haunting as an asymtote.

VIII

Only now do I realize that your absence tears apart the space-time fabric of my consciousness, a black hole that sucks away my words of comfort, leaving me with nothing but a string of atonal elegy.

IX

Dance and laugh! For those are the only activities that separates us from the dead. (No more Spirit of Gravity!)

X

Too often do we take a joke seriously - it is time we take seriousness jokingly.

XI

When Memory mixes with Fiction, like a drop of blood into a cup of water, it is the birth of Poetry.

XII

Which of you am I thinking of when I wrote all this? And which of me was doing the writing?