…Those of your breath, those of mine.
For the dawn to come and leave in your womb the ink of gestures and evocative words; for you to see the hope of a tomorrow the common will season.
For the pangs our distance left, we can perceive the four corners that your soul and my footprint awakened. Could I then expect a stout heart, bigger and stronger than a sycamore? Should I then expect to face all that we woven as the strand became a thread?
Intimates… all those sweet rivers filled with crystalline salts; in an opaque blue I break down the mystery and its shadow. For the times of patience, I shut your departure on the shore, you swathe mine.
Your beautiful mystery docks my heart and throws this thread; circles with soft caresses the endless questions appearing as amazonite. Forgive our irritations and our gall. We were only souls lost in the middle of nowhere…
From your glistening curves which held my vision, I can only touch you slivers that slice my escapades; heavy burden for your indulgence; sparkling strata encircling the indolence of your smile.
I called and you answered, a gentle poet lost in the Mount of the word…