You, My Creation

You, my creation, my art,
you—
my every throb
of a hopelessly broken heart.

How did I discern immortal you,
your endless soul,
from all these
canonical, demarcated charts?

The certitude of your curving lines,
set apart
from all the uncertain doubts
etched in lines—
lines unswerving
from the start.

All these perennial forms
rising from impermanent imitations,
from corroding matter,
from a decaying world
bursting apart.

How could I ever braid immortality—
from the wraps of falling to end,
and the woofs of rising
to start?

How can I still live you,
now,
when so deep in our togetherness,
we are this much
distanced
in our hearts?