You Are Love

You are love...

(I kissed your lips this morning and picked a flower from a garden before it ever grew. I carried the flower to a pergola, colorful in the hours that bond us.)

There are night skies as I write, but I can only see sapphire. There are shores in the remoteness that we would walk if there now--we would breeze past the wintered curtains that insist on a chill, (or a feeling that snow has crept into the pane).

I press your poems to my face and breath your name.

And like your name, my ears are still submerged in the continuous sea of your voice like sand or shells washed into the sun-–every now and then pushed into the deep only to rise once more.

Your voice a stellar instrument, loving sounds or syllables that flood my flesh like a gentle rain. I want to be the cup that you sip from, the paper you write your most famous lines upon.

I long to be the hands that you gather snow in.

And if I cannot be your hands, I will take them, kiss them and say a prayer into the wind. I will gift you with a heart true above the reverberations of infinite butterfly flurry and sigh.

What I feel, sitting here is how deeply, bodily inscribed you are within me. All of my desire is for you, for you as who you are, here.

What you do to me emotionally and physically is totally unshakable.

You are love.

Draft II