You think, in the cold and the dark, the wind that bites -- winter fighting back -- the clouds that spin, that I perhaps do not think of you. That I am lost to the concrete forest. My love, my friend, my angel, guardian, lady. You drift, ebbing with the tides, and when others deconstruct and turn their lives upside down and inside out to change like origami birds, to take flight, to soar, you ride the swells and gaze at the sky.
Or perhaps, beloved, you do not gaze at the sky enough. For if you did, if you were, if your eyes were on the sky as much as mine are than you would know:
I love you like sunlight on the sea. Like swift white clouds, thin and spread like feathers. I love you like the wet stones of the shore at Second Beach, cast there to tell my fortune.
I want you like candle flame, the heavy egg-shaped votive burning in my palm. I want you to tell me yes as you have never before. I am done writing stories; I want you on fire for me as I am for you. Want to dance these flames together. Amen.
I miss you as if I am dead. I am controlled and working hard, throwing myself into everything like there is nothing else. Showing half-a-hundred strangers around me that I can meet every demand. I miss you because I miss us and so I miss myself. I walk unknown here -- for my passion for you is not a label for me. It is part of who I am. The heart of me.
Will you recognize me in this new-found militance?
I read between the lines when you write for me. I buy a red silk scarf and tie it snug, a right wristband, caressed for hours beneath my fingertips. I think perhaps we match now, yes? No, not a scarf there, I know... but something else, something more fitting... but this love, this passion, this heart... it is the same.
Look up, my lady. Look up.
Do you see how much you are loved?
