Under the naked vault of noon,
where sky-fire drips from solar rivers,
I walk the plain of living suns—
no walls, no roof,
only earth pulsing like a heart. She appears—
Mary, the hearth-mother in human skin,
eyes warm galaxies,
lips a promise of bread and wine,
body curved like the horizon. We collide in laughter,
spark to spark,
eros rising like dawn steam. I reach—
she catches my wrists,
soft as moonlight,
firm as tides:
“Not yet.
The fire must earn the fire.” Behind her,
a second flame—
faceless, yet facing,
a presence without form,
Lilith’s shadow or Eve’s echo,
sensing, not seen,
breathing the boundary. No hammer.
No forge.
Only desire held in open hands,
honesty blazing between us. The athlete runs—
through my pulse,
through her refusal,
through the unseen witness. I do not take.
I become the offering. To Honesty
is not a name struck—
it is the space between yes and not-yet,
where the fire learns to wait.