The Minotaur

 We two are sumo wrestlers, wedging between the nooks of one another’s flesh with all the force of Venus’ atmospheric pressure, panting like carnivorous bovine animals as we fight to resist our expulsion from the ring.

This is what it must’ve felt like to exist as the Minotaur, Asterion, before he was slain into non-being by Theseus.  I can imagine myself in the Labyrinth now, the beastly offspring of Mino’s wife and the Cretan bull, a tragic amalgamation of human and brute.  It wouldn’t matter that I was a stranded toddler in the serpentine maze: I’d keep expecting you to turn up around every corner, every hedge, perched on some bush of quilted leaves, waiting for me. I’d convince myself that I could never know the complexities of that warren, and that I’d never pass along the same regions twice, just to retain the hope that reaching you was fathomable. 

Inconceivable, to divorce myself from thoughts of you.  Maybe we’d rediscover one another in the center of the erratic network of passages, and our hearts, reflectively, would turn to kernels – soft and edible.  We could devour each other whole, picking through our innards, getting to know our very essences. 

Or maybe we’d stumble across one another on insomnia driven walks in the night.  The initial collision would frighten us both, but I’d soon recall what skin-to-skin contact felt like, and offer myself over to you like some sort of sacrificial lamb waiting to serve its purpose on the altar before god. 

This is all I really want: to surrender myself, and for you to cave in like an old wooden house with a disintegrating foundation – to let me fall headlong into your chest, and to open your arms to accept me as a parenthetical note in the text of your pneuma.