You are delight and downturn.
You are the rush of dove feathers, startled, every time I see you near.
When I write you a letter you give me a papercut. A papercut that bleeds just a drop every hour you don’t write back. There’s a red river by my writingdesk.
You are desire and distance.
You’ve awoken a lion in me. It has been asleep lazying about on the savannah because no lionness could rouse him from slumber. Now suddenly even chasing antelope doesn’t seem so pointless.
You are distance and desire.
There are two chasms between us that one of us must cross. I can lay down the planks, urge you to swiftly take those two steps across the canyon. I can turn them into mighty bridges decked with roses. But still you must cross.
For you, I am tranquil in a new way. With you, I can see the stars flame out. Next to you, a month seems like a day. Thinking of you, I am wisdom and peace bound up in certainty and justice because lady, you’re worth dreaming about.
But there’s a red river by my writingdesk.
I also wrote this. Read it as if it was a spoken word piece. Part 2 in a series