To my new love, long delayed, still at bay

You are all too real to be my love:
made of skin and bones, covered in flaws.
You are physical, feelable, all things I desired
without substance.

For I wish to love
more brightly than the stars that are burning up
and you are real
like anything made of anything that isn't love.

I am a headspace suspended in skin,
covered with nostalgia, nervous and thin,
shod with painful shoes of thought,
walking these long halls of memories and cots.

For I wish to love
more brightly than the stars that are burning up
and you are too real
to be anything that is anything that really isn't love.

We are both in love with dying, we are drinking from That Fountain,
that is pouring like an avalanche, coming down the mountain.