Perichoresis

Three. One movement.
Turning, holding, releasing — and turning again.
No beginning to the dance.
No end.
Around them, a blue fire burns.
Not to consume — to purify.

The purest flame,
the kind that reveals
what was always true.
This is not performance.
This is love,
moving in and through itself,
giving, receiving,
never diminishing.

To be loved by this dance
is to be drawn into it.
The fire does not burn you.

It burns everything
that was never truly you.
There is room.
There has always been room.