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Thursday, August 22, 2002
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this is what you do for me...
I'm drowning. drowning in her love (they say its the most lovely peaceful death) and I don't want to ever come up for air. Amid nightime misty skies and the chirrup of cricket wings, she is the fire and the sea which bring me life nad consume me whole. (i wish that I could make her know) In my mind that is always how I imagine her touch, like clear night water swirling up along my naked limbs. so smooth. so pure. always.
It's nights like these when I can pierce the veil and make her feel me - when she hums beneath my splayed and questing fingers, beneth the reverence of my kiss - that I am alive. She always sees me and I am always light. dazzling. sparkling. shining. But she does not see that its her beauty and her love which illuminate me from within. We are always magic. we. not me. We. Our touch is fire and light and life made one. We are the rolling seas, and the quiet rocks (firm, anchored, knowing) which tehy dash upon. Our seasons of waiting are the mists of the sky and our brilliance is the clear blue fiery dawn. Sacred. unstoppable. unbindable and ever returning.
&nsbp;
I love her so. She seems me and I am magic because the poetry in her eyes says it is so. Beneath her gaze I am stripped bare. All of the detritus and the armour plating fall away like autumn leaves. The gears and machines I use to get me though everyday, catch fire and crumble away to cold ash at my feet. I am laid bare. Tender and aching and glowing at the core. Everything, everything which is or was or will be extraneous she burns away with a touch until only the quintessential remains. quivering in the clear air. and I am forced to see myself. my self.
What remains is infinitely more than the sum of all my parts.
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