[untitled]

Letters to a Stranger

Idly, I sing, I dream by thee.
Time flees in eye sheen, lying by me.
Sighing, my Queen, I bring live things;
Quite eager, nigh feed her,
My meager, lithe thing.
Mist reigns this day, Miss Raven Veins.
In gray visage visit this knave
Within this place, spinning his staves
Of tongue, of love, and grave.
So tinge and touch, elate.

A firestorm in the valley, blocked by the rocky ranges on either side, and then her December rains come just as the moors begin to tan and wither. All is quiet at the end of the waterfall. A great and lasting pool is formed, hollowed in place, where life begins to grow. Foliage blooms at the extremities and her cosmos observes the hydration. A promise is made, and another. His lands are fraught with adoration.

You are wordless. Furled and courteous. Courtship herds this. Misheard and concerned in sure bits. It spurs fits. Curses. When will her merciless silence find its curve into words yet?
I am in the rush, an overpour of surface high water tides. They slosh and spill on the dry, clean frontier. Splashing the floor with dashing remorse. Crashing forth. Badly I'm torn betwixt madness and warmth. Gladly sworn into her moor. I lack the more I track for. A sad course. Happenstance happened to lance my core, pierced through and pedestaled, a mad boar. Sap dances in my great tree's pores, sealing soreness from acts before. The nectar of her spores. Sweetened. Ordained. Immersive. Galore. Happily born from the womb of her motherly shore. Word by seldom word, I want more. It itches, it pangs, it twitches, and bores and hitches its fangs evermore.

In the fleeting moments where clips of feelings coven am I unwound and lain down for whispers potent.

Your presence arrests me
Caress cheek
Sleek in manner
To handle her essence
Sessions of cantor
Duress peaks
Discretionary me
Perpetuary tree
Depressed, her nest breeds
Confess, weak
Speak yet stammer
To pander as pheasants
Question and banter
Undressed be
Your feathers ascending

Wanderlust
On her trust
Comment thusly
Trust me
Lovely
The sum
Of all things costly
Lost me
But she must see
Wonder thusly
Of she
Lovely...

It was early morning as I awoke; clouds of gray swept the tired sky. I thought briefly of her hypnotizing eyes, words she had said to me. Butterflies spawned in my core only for me to remember that she's halfway across the world.

My ebon rose, and to think
I thieved you from another's glass dome
Now worry not of what's owned

If I were a fly in a web, I'd hope you were the spider to consume me.

Strangers dreamt and love thereof
They name their doves
The crow I am without murder
Full now is the wishing well
I've gained but an empty pocket
As you frolic by with the sun on your leash
In stolen glances I am blinded
Shone upon by your border's glow
Away you go
And I remain in monochrome

The battered moth in harried winds
Tearing wings are thinned
Stained glass shattered to mere frame
I'm to blame
Love's dilation upon your grin
Beheld vanilla skin
Tethers fray unto the gale
I fall pale
Stretched your compliment for miles
All the while, updialed

*thinks about last conversation minutes ago*

She's there, right now. Just like I am. Not in the past, nor the future. Right now. She's real. The sun just takes longer to reach her. We are both still freshly glowing from each other's distant company. We are both going back over the lines. What was said. She'll continue her day, whatever that will be like. I'll fall into dreams. Whatever those will be like. Awash in new pleasure.

[later]

There was a silence. It lasted every hour until now, beginning at my awakening to cross emotions down the hall: a bitter mother and sly son beating their bond to rubbish. She always tries to hide it with distractions of tending to her planters and making tea for the household with her special recipe. An unorthodox formula of some type. I can hear it in her sighs.
Yet I retreat to my quarters and meddle in social media and futureless crafting hobbies.
The black dove sleeps, on the other side of this imaginary distance, nested in her fondness. Twigs that fear ever snapping, woven in perfect braids. Helices of painstaking detail. Often she wakes whether of duress in dreaming or by lonely moonlight. The very sun that lights my days is reflecting off the moon at her. As if I turned a bulb on in the living room and it shone through the cracks of her bedroom door. An imaginary distance.

Some days I think I'm just scared.