Burned

Burned by the quantavolution of your soul,
stronger than farther. Turning away from
your intent, I am seared, overwhelmed with
faded postcards and memories of things
other people said. I, awe struck with urge,
turn away still to find I orbit you in
passing. I am as I always was; I stand
beside infinity and weep. No wings where
once was bone, memories tend to rebirth you
larger than life. Neither art nor imitation
seems to bedazzle you like dying fireflies in
the night. When I say I am going to turn away
from this, it becomes divine. When I think I have
to find away, becomes it doubly divine. I cannot
remove myself from this most beautiful thing. The
most beautiful one of them all, which seems to be
accruing.