Tuesday, June 18, 2013

The Holiest of Signs

Yes . . . Loveliest of all syllables, most healing of all sentiments. Before its penultimacy, one kneels. Makes the offer. And waits.

What are you that anyone should fall before you? When we know we are the object of another's longing, we must meet it: with words, with photographs: according to the terms of their desire. Logistics has no place in it. When you are ready, you will signal: you know what the other wants because it is what you want as well.

There is a way things are, and a way things can be. Who places the sacristy within, and attains it interiorly, knows. I wait beyond words for the slopes and folds that only you can offer. Give and be healed. But give.

And so . . . All day I bend over the desk and write: about the sea, about cemeteries, about love, about lust. I travel to her and take her with me, hand in hand, lips to softer lips, and travel more. I wait on the holiest of signs. Her tides: her picture: her yes.

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