Cartography of Two Mouths: A Love Beyond Time, Form, and Matter #poetry

Geography of Want

Your lips—
latitude.
Mine—
longitude.
Where do they meet?

Somewhere beyond the visible spectrum of light,
where breath is not just air but an ancient script
etched in the cosmos before flesh was even an idea.
We are coordinates plotted long before time began,
written in star charts older than the gods themselves.

I map you in the cartography of longing,
your collarbone a forgotten river winding through the galaxies,
your sighs the pulse of a universe still expanding.
I step in barefoot, not knowing where this path leads,
only that it must be walked,
only that every footstep is a prayer,
only that every touch is a verse in a holy book
that no one has yet written.

Time bends when I think of you.
You are a ghost that has not yet lived,
a prophecy whispered through a thousand rebirths.
I have met you in a hundred lifetimes,
in candlelit temples where silence hummed with recognition,
in nameless deserts where sand and skin
were indistinguishable from eternity.

The gods must have sighed when they saw us—
two wandering lines that should never intersect,
yet pull toward each other with the force of forgotten truths.
I name you in a language that predates human throats.
I seek you in the folds of my own existence.

Where do our lips meet?
Everywhere.
Nowhere.
Only in the place where time unravels
and infinity kneels at the altar of us.

Language Without Syntax

There are no commas in the way I want you.
Only run-on sentences of fingers tracing spines,
only paragraphs written in the gasp of skin meeting skin.

I speak you in a tongue that has no past tense,
only an ever-expanding present,
an infinite now,
a wordless dialect of pulse and longing.

Your name—
not letters but vibrations,
a hum beneath the skin of existence,
a syllable the cosmos has been singing since before fire,
before breath,
before even the first flicker of thought
dared to name itself.

There are no rules to this language.
It is ungoverned,
a raw, primeval utterance
older than scripture,
deeper than the unformed prayers
that drifted between the ribs of ancient prophets
before they knew how to worship.

I do not know how to say you.
Your body is a phrase that slips between my teeth,
a poem that refuses to be captured,
a sentence that spills beyond the margins of time itself.
I try to write you—
but ink cannot hold the depth of this hunger.
I try to call you—
but my voice breaks beneath the weight of your absence.

Perhaps love is a dialect we are still learning,
a script our bodies once knew but have long forgotten.
Perhaps each kiss is an unspoken verse,
each touch a forgotten stanza,
each sigh a punctuation mark in the book of us.

And maybe—
just maybe—
this language has no ending,
only echoes
reverberating through the fabric of forever.

Architecture of Two Bodies Colliding

If love is a house, let’s burn the blueprints.
Let’s tear down the walls of expectation,
let’s build not with wood and stone
but with breath and moonlight,
with the weight of unsaid words
that press against the spaces between us.

The walls will be made of sighs.
The ceiling will be a sky that never stops opening.
The doors will not exist,
for where would we go
when we have already arrived?

Your body is not a structure—
it is a temple,
and I am a pilgrim without shoes,
willing to walk the burning ground just to reach the altar.
Your skin is sandstone carved by time’s patient hands,
your eyes are stained glass windows
that turn light into something holier than itself.

I kneel before you, not in worship,
but in reverence of a truth
too large for language.

When we collide,
it is not destruction but creation,
not a breaking but a becoming,
not two separate bodies but one endless hymn,
sung across dimensions,
echoing in the bones of unborn constellations.

This house we build is not made of matter.
It cannot be touched,
yet it has always existed.
It stands outside of time,
where eternity folds into itself like silk,
where love is not a fleeting moment
but a structure more ancient than gravity.

No one will ever live here but us.
No one else will ever find it.

Because it does not exist—
except in the space where you and I meet
and become something more than flesh,
more than souls,
more than even the gods who first dreamed of love.

Time Warps Between Kiss and Catastrophe

We exist outside the logic of clocks.
Time is a myth we refuse to believe in.
There is no past between us,
only an ever-repeating now,
only the echoes of a thousand lifetimes
folding into a single breath.

We have always been.
We will always be.

Time tries to measure love,
but love is not something that can be measured—
it is not linear, not finite,
not confined to the fleeting tick of seconds.
It is the pause between heartbeats,
the slow collapse of stars,
the spaces between molecules where infinity hums.

Perhaps our love was born in a supernova,
the final sigh of a dying sun,
scattered across the void
only to find itself here,
in the fragile space between our lips,
in the electric pull of our bodies
orbiting each other
like celestial bodies too stubborn to drift apart.

When we kiss, the world ends.
When we part, it begins again.
Every touch is an apocalypse,
every breath a resurrection.

One day, the universe will fold into itself,
but we will remain.
Two echoes,
two whispers,
two lovers lost in the fabric of eternity,
never gone, never fading—
just shifting between time and the spaces beyond it.

And when the last light fades,
when all that ever was turns to dust,
you and I will remain,
still reaching,
still touching,
still falling into each other—
forever.

The Continuum of Almost

Perhaps we never reach the end.
Perhaps there is no end.
Only the gentle, infinite curve of longing
spiraling beyond the visible,
beyond the measurable,
beyond the language we once trusted
to hold something as vast as this.

Love is not arrival.
It is not a destination to be conquered,
a door to be unlocked,
a mountain to be claimed.
It is the space between reaching and grasping,
between knowing and unknowing,
between the inhale and exhale
where your name still lingers
on the edge of my breath.

I see you in the shape of light bending at dusk,
in the ripple of water refusing to stay still,
in the silence that follows the last note of a song
before it dissolves into the atmosphere.
You exist in the moment just before collision,
just before surrender,
just before everything shatters
and remakes itself in the image of us.

Maybe we are meant to remain unfinished,
a sentence left mid-thought,
a brushstroke paused on the edge of eternity,
a tide that never quite reaches the shore.

Maybe we are the eternal "almost,"
the ache of something just out of reach,
the hum of a world that remembers our touch
but does not yet know our name.

And maybe that is enough.
Maybe we are not meant to hold love,
only to feel it moving through us—
a current without an end,
a fire that does not burn out,
a whisper still echoing
long after we have turned to dust.

Maybe we never reach the end.
Maybe we were never meant to.
Maybe love is not about being found—
but about never being lost.

#Poetry #Love #EternalRomance #MetaPoetry #TimelessLove #SpiritualConnection #CelestialLovers #UnfinishedInfinity