I fashioned you, foraged through sandstone and ice. I found the flint, and struck it, thrice. You sparked a fire in the snow. And laid warm against the rock. Covered in caves beneath stalactites formed, you stirred. I held in my palm your tangible thing, its edges indenting my flesh. A fortnight passed. I wrote it out in sevens’ past, fiction, only in dusty hallways meant to last. In fiery and deity presumption, I made you flesh, and made you mine. I corrupted universal law and bent the matrix of mankind, and above. Your flesh my flesh, your voice my voice, your bones my bones, you said ” why?” I said ” love, don’t ask.”
