This will soon be over.
Sometimes you think I am not listening. You tell me so. And you are right. My mind wanders, I tell you. I am glad this admission of mine throws you off the scent somewhat, because I’d rather you not know how deeply I’ve furrowed these caves of mine, carving out infinite space for meeting with you.
In this vast underworld of mine, I slow down all orbits and revolutions, only that I may greedily prolong these moments.
I am helpless to stop it.
I have tasted the salt of ferocity crashing upon the shore, of sweet eucalyptus drifting and dancing through the treetops. I have inhaled this scent, which my lungs have desperately fought to memorize. These self-portraits can never show our deepest colors, how brightly we shine. Or how our intertwined paths wind through cities, across bridges, down grocery aisles and subway escalators, across tidal pools and beaten-down sidewalks, through alleyways and up through sanctuaries. They all resonate with the sound of our breath and our banter, our yearnings, fears, musings and hopes. The biting cold that settles deep within our marrow shall soon evaporate, swallowed up in the heat and its thickness.
I am fearful I will lose this certainty. That Doubt might brazenly usurp Hope’s throne, after such a brief but breathtakingly glorious reign.
But perfect Love does not merely cast out Fear–it vanquishes it.
So I will sing its annihilation, like the foolish dreamer that I am.