I wish I could still feel the thump of your warm ribbons of blood against the bones of my breath, fumbling and tumbling through the sacred air that knows our names- and the name we are together that I cannot even speak. No language knows the word for this wordlessness. No dangling trick of fateless fortune has yet to wander upon this story of unrelenting resounding sounds of love echoing in the folds and tears of old pillows and ratted sheets of paper cloth. The way we held our love in our hands, the way our wings refused to flap, the way the twisting coughs of triumphant clouds want to run about and toss themselves around in their own bemused mystery. I wish I could remember the sound of your voice and hear it sliding across my bedframe to me. I wish that in some space within the within, all of our dreams and all of our wishes and all of our most elegant thoughts were carried out with beautiful fanfare, lace frills and delicate, memorable words of gratitude. I wish that someone was there to witness it…to steal the silences away, tuck them inside a paper bag, and give them to me so that I may hear the fullness of that silence once again.
After the unbelievable inconstancy of the dripping hands of the sky, I miss you incessantly.
I can’t wait for the day when we all breathe each others words into our own bodies…feel them evaporate the swollen structures of our feeble frames and watch them trickle down our melting spines until they all collect in this primal pool of sacred me-water. Then we’ll rain ourselves back into ourselves and let ourselves drink from the infinite puddle of falling soul.
And I’ll keep sitting here, watching the sky turn mesmorizeblue…and wait for you to come home.