I died tonight in dreams of loving you,
where touch is not required to fan the flame.
Flesh dulls you and denies what's really true:
In perfect love, two souls become the same.
When love is separated from itself
behind a wall of pride and fear and doubt,
then all I am is set upon a shelf,
a treasure chest that feels inside out.
But truer than the pleasure of my skin
is dying to the will to be apart,
and breaking through the flesh where I begin
you rise into the heaven of my heart.
The ending of ourselves we shouldn't mourn.
A universe of love is being born.
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