Vague, pseudo-poetry that needs a shitload of editing

(Or to be discarded as self-indulgent, masturbatory, wallowing-in-the-mire crap, but I'm behind on posting, and this is what I spent the better part of the evening working on, so, here goes.)

Lovers embrace.
He, wrapping his arms about her.
She, enfolding, accepting,
Entwining her own arms about him.
As though arms can create some symbol of infinity.
We hope that when we pull away,
Fate will be a failed magician
And the circles will hold –
Infinite, bound inextricably.
But, like the illusionist’s rings,
The idea of an unending caress is an apparition.
Once the magic hour has passed,
After she has moaned and gasped,
And whispered secret vows in the glow thereafter,
The smoke clears, the mirrors realign,
And therein, he sees more clearly than ever
That the spell that bound her to him,
(And him to her, for that matter)
Has broken,
Leaving shattered fragments about them both.
There is no reason to remain at her side,
But to leave is to slice one’s feet to bits.
(Spell-binding and -breaking does have its price.)
Without an inch of flesh or of soul touching the other,
They sit and stare at a point neither distant nor near.
The question hangs in the air,
Unspoken,
Perhaps the last thought communicated
In that silent language between lovers:
“Which of us will be the first to leave?”