Flight 913, Gate 523W: Anegada > Barbados
Yours. Mine. Hours. Arriving Right On Time. 🏝️⚕️ 🛫 💛 ✨🌔
Would that I could walk on water to get to You, traverse o’er the isles as a stone skims sea, sending out ripples beyond the metered and measured kilometers, along surfaces that in and of their selves hide fathoms even as they transcend this dimension. As that stone, to find you, if only one last chance, one final dance, the only dance there is, to say hello, goodbye.
I wanted to write this love letter, hesitating, fearing you would take it to mean more than I mean, which is to say I Love You and nothing more even though you are so much more than three words capture in any body, spirit or cumulative imagination. The letter must be writ. 🕯️✒️📜
Love is the soft and noble expression in your caring hands, conducting your music: timbre; rhythm; and accent, pitched and sent via your unique air ways, broadcast through the larynx I feel vibrate in my tachy chakra, BPM heart racing to the metronome of her syncopation, diphthongs, vowels, crisp, enunciated consonants so sexy sweet and beats whose remembrance still resonate, lull and sway my soul to keep. A cadence betrays quiet confidence, imparting informed knowledge, comfort and wisdom, even now bringing a taut restraint as I conjure you in my Imaginarium’s aural sensations, relive our few sands through the hourglass shared. If I am sincere I, Alone. It is merely my lonely island. Then as now, projecting on to you protecting me.
No matter. It makes for good pulp. To whit, Muse.
My aorta swells with increased blood flow, fauces tenses, emotions crest, digits type through gratitudinal tears welling from the cornea’s corners, misty windows at best, trickling now down my cheek, truth be told, pooling on the keys to reflect a cornucopia of The Light within that yet still burns. The Source, Eternal Flame, beholding anew in my memory’s sight, meeting the gaze of your improbable dark orbs, first in a bleary state of recovery and, later, during sudden and lonely passage across the terroir of an unknown plight, a tumult of seconds as minutes as hours along the landscape of night, returning to the soothe of that voice and those eyes, surely impossible from which to see, to fathom what resides, bottomless deep in Thee, framed by lithe, magnetic skin, tiger’s eye silken hues and tones of amber magnificence, radiance, glow.
Row, row my boat, gently from your stream. Life now is but a dream, all adolescent need, outer limits to the depths of what lies beneath You and me.
So, No.
It’s not that superficial tide which draws us all into the Sirens’ melifluous melody where danger and certain death await, seduced only to be cast upon jagged shoals of shallow sentiments in carnal shadows we deem romance and name and really want to believe in as love, one-dimensional, if demented, ham-hock, fantasy at most. No. I swim in deep waters. Love is not reserved to ephemeral brevities, banalities that cover vascular, ligature and skeletal remains of mortal decay, constructs that encase a goddess’ marvelous brain right down to atomic, molecular particles of impossible-to-explain divinity that is our ever-evolving if never-changing human form.
Attraction is not restrained nor limited to those parts that call on procreative, primal drives borne on desire, vanity of a feeble man’s middling regrets of roads taken, middle-aged vain need which, in another universe, another dream, would have chased you ‘round Perdition’s Flame until I gave you up, wooing to captivate your beautiful mind, wooing as fantasy, you supine and soft in my arms. Lay, Lady, Lay, across my big brass bed, your pheromones and parts caving to their own feral response, longing to be possessed, to be loved.
You were tending to your science, doing your job.
I, in my autumn, a second coming of Cinema Paradiso — transference, a cathexis established on a beachhead of forced intimacy, vulnerability and labs | data-driven information — age with someone to watch over me, your physician my patient need: To have and to hold, until death or boredom do us part, ego’s hunger to make your supple body yield, communion with the gods, welcoming legs spread wide, limbs entwined, kisses that start on the pelvic floor, crawl up into our diaphragms, scale esophageal canals, free-solo pharynges, meet at our tongues on a precipice between lust and love, lips to shape the dialogue, member seeding luscious and lush womb. Waters that flow deep, bottomless, impossible to see that which lies beneath, betwixt and in between, gestation under watchful gaze of a pregnant Moon, super full and ripe with the Harvest of a September swoon that will pass too soon and I pray not before opportune chance to confess, at long last and from the instance I first experienced you somewhere in time…
I. Love. You. You, Who are Love.
I am your gratitude for all that you bequeathed of your self to me, me and the forty damsels and knights you rescue from the heath, nights upon nights, each of us yours for a fleeting blush, maybe some unmoved but likely many feeling the vibe I’ve here professed, emanating from your unremittent, unrepentant and unrequited giving, the vibration of your keen intellect and sober analysis the ultimate aphrodisiacs, your care and compassion dressed in a title that may be doctored to cast our lot into a divide of caste but which will never separate our shared bond of humanity in this dimension and its unique burden of suffering to bear if we allow our selves to let it in and heal the wounds from within, the yours and the mine.
I read recently about Voyager 1, firing thrusters not used in forty-seven years. (Oh, the irony in this, slightly older now, voyager. C’est mois.) 🎭🎬✌️💀
Yea, Voyager 1, Her emotionless, efficient mission to probe, explore the outer reaches of our solar system, until she no longer has ability to live, pointing her antennae back to the inconsequence that is this pale blue dot for one last communique, one last breath of life to give, to help us understand the cometlike shape in which we exist, the heliosphere and how it protects The Sun, Earth and all the planets and their satellites, from energized particles and radiation in interstellar space.
Perhaps this is why we refer to vessels that carry us in the female gender, as the mother ewe incubates the lamb but also tireless in her work far more than to rear and transport, the thankless labor well after the birth, to observe and report, protect and defend, nurture and apprehend.
It’s tempting to allude to you as my Voyager but I look at you and know you are filled with emotions, leagues of them. In this moment, in this life, you have been something far more impactful, interactive: my heliosphere — The Mistress, Sister of The Night, fulfilled. She who burns bright, luminous in lingerie woven of ultraviolet light, swaddling me, holding me close, together with La Luna, my Bae, clad in watery beam negligee, in a loving spoon, as we again sail milky galaxies’ passages, corridors and ways, transit the starry skies.
Across The Universe.
Let it Be.
Before. After. Ever.
Protection from the wounds. of Time.
Yours. Mine. Hours. A speck in the fabric of cosmic stardust magic.
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