Let the silence fall. Let the song that is behind the song at last be heard. Let me kiss your shoulder a last time and go to sleep beside it. Let what wants to be heard, be heard, in us, conjoined.
For what loves, continues, and is not contingent. And what loves, gives, and does not question the logistics. And what loves is beyond error and only smiles and only laughs and only forgives. And what loves is, and what is is, and we are one in it - and for it - together.
For you the tangle of wild blackberries beside which I linger as the sun rises.
For you the sunrise, and the baby bears, and the hoof prints of fawns on the trail.
For you this sentence, and the next one too, and all the ones that follow and all that went before.
For you my wordy heart, that leather satchel in which poems are pressed, and dedicated: for you.
For she is lavender to me, and raw garlic, and the slopes and folds of the only landscape that matters. And every word that spills out of me is a seed before her. For she enters my dreams and loves me like a wild woman. For she drinks with me by the October fire, cold whiskey and the clear light of stars.
And she places my hand on her heart.
And she bids me to feel the hot rush of blood in her.
And she lifts me beyond what beats into what is: and it is her body and more than that too.
For you, then, these words: this paltry assembly of sentences: as always, forever, my darling: for you.