In the beginning, God was monobloc - but love is motion and God grew hermetic upon itself, swelling smaller until wrecked - as red and purpled valves syncopate - an explosion. And now love is any hole-shape, every writhing cavity behind ribs, a empty vector for your lovers, your children. As you curled into the unexpected vacancies in a father, a mother, your lovers. Each clasp in arms as if it might be the last. Each hollowed part a fresh wound of gentle fingers. Or you leaped upon me like a panther and now your shadow hides in my throat, waiting for you to find it. Or the whole agony a pulling together, a drawing apart, an automatic resemblance. Or the will to listen to the reverberation of that primal heart broken - an echo that tastes like our blood. Lay your hands upon me and I will be at peace. Sleep in my veins and let me rest in yours. Together, maybe, we could pretend we are more than small dolls in a matryoshka. Each nested bit a piece of God trying to put itself back together.