It opens with a titillation,
A melodious word/ witty remark
Or the idea of his face
Attached to a distended muscle
Lower than his abdomen.

You draw in the outlines and shadow
In the figure you imagine must be so restrained
(As he said, to cause it to swell and rupture)
In order to form life.

You realize creation is not from nothing
But an end of something
Which is, theoretically, the nothingness of that
At that moment before it transforms into something
Else.

She feels lubricated at the denoument
That is if the creation itself was not the climax
You imagine the three of you in an open field
Draped with slabs of flesh
(As if to say) Inside-out.

So you scour what meager plot of land
You have compared against their continents
And oceans.

You must have a loud voice
So that yours will hear you, finally
Assuming he/she/such a concept, no- entity-
Exists.

And titillation turns into overwhelming sadness
(Imagine if there had been restraint)
Creation ensues.

See, their mere image has created a microcosm
Within you.

One day you will create as vast a universe
As to make your own in others.

You will call them
The Isadorae.