Love hangs in some alternate dimension, awaiting my capture of it, my net and my anchor, that I can haul it through the barrier and have it materialize, vivid and alive, a messenger. It doesn’t exist here. It has no distance time and form… where dost love live?
It doesn’t exist but still I see it. Still I am weeping sunshine when I glimpse it in those eyes. In those eyes, looking at me, I see every layer of colour, like tinted liquid slides… rich, fat spectrums; chocolate and amber and arbutus tree bark. A fusion of pigments that seem to be more than matter. Hues of an exquisite soul emanating. Luminous invisible waves that reach out lovingly and cradle my trembling heart.
Love, the space to be. Just be. No masks to craft and no puppet shows to engineer.
Love, when my face is like a chalk drawing in a rainstorm.
Love, when I am a trilling, diving swallow alive and thrilled by new ideas and possibility.
Your love is my space to be. A greenhouse where my exotic petals may unfurl and not be bruised. Where every tendril of my spirit creeps and stretches farther and wider than my previous cocoons ever have allowed.
Your love is a sunshine meadow near a stream. Safe and free and warm, and buzzing with the vitality of bumblebees. A meadow where I’m the princess and the monster, the wicked and the ravishing, the lover and the liar… Here, I can be any magnificent shade of myself.
