At first, she was nothing to me,
nothing I could see.
Then two points collided in secret.
And through some Euclidean miracle,
two points made an indigo line
that floated to the surface of a white window plane,
a handheld compass pointing I knew not where.
Then the line spread out,
and became flat images of white on static:
forehead, nose, chin,
five slight fingers,
a string of pearls,
all burned onto a scroll of paper
that curled in my hand
as I tucked her into a pocket,
folded her between two pages.
Then she took on full dimension:
pressing, expanding, kicking,
Now we are twin spheres with one another,
plump and round, orbiting, intersecting,
as close as we will ever be
in the peculiar geometry of our lives.
But now I know, the compass points to a
She must increase, but I will decrease, someday and too soon,
become a flat photo above the fireplace, veiled by light's glare,
a flash of insight across her face.