I want your ballroom, the unborn recess, your flock of sheep. I want to watch your face while you have an orgasm, that pure moment, abandon going forwards and back, towards both poles of infinity. You are inside yourself there, and although I have caused it, I do not exist for those few moments. I want to crawl inside the unknown of your god, the latent world behind that half smile and lifted eyebrow (how knowing it is, the way you look at me, as if it were a kind of assertion. You seemed so comfortable in your skin, relaxed but amused at the shy way I looked up at you when you smiled, and then curled my eyebrows and fixed my eyes in wonder, trying to figure out who you were, why you would look at me that way. Do you remember? No, probably not. But I do.). God is capacity without circumference/dimension (plural/ambiguous). I want to lick it’s tender, amorphous walls that are like the inside of flesh and push my body against them the way you hug a pillow at night when no one is there.