You can birth worlds, if only he would plant a seed with authenticity. With numbered days we play with chance and fate, at each turn we roll for what could be worth more than what we have now. How fleeting the tension becomes when coupled with another who melts surfaces with her hands. I will be everywhere and nowhere, on the page and in thoughts, bound in a binding that bears your name. These little bows that tie your wrists, red and hung with care, a delicate lining led up, to taste what you must share. I can be only fragments to you, shown through the light of this looking glass, scattered upon eons, dust on the wind. We break hearts as easily as saying hello. The uncountable ways we have tried to blend ourselves into some other expectation, only to find we slip out the bottom, or float to the very top. Her hips are the incantation of eyes, mesmerizing my demise, stripping inhibitions as quickly as she comes to me. Even wild flames need a soft night to grab them by their throat. The roar of night in our gentle ears matches the rush between our hands, where we live now, hidden in the trees. How to seduce the flames of a thousand suns, open your hands. There is room enough for every dream, for everyone to breathe, for each of us, to be. For the jealous want the formula, your rules made in hands touched by time, unique, measured ounce by ounce, flavored with experiences only you can render, hold tight. For if you lead, they will come, forever. She was an idol for the transparent, the misdirected and the consumed, they hung on every word like a last breath, never quite breathing for themselves. There is only one language, born with you and covered by years of false hopes, and hands that said they would hold you. I wonder if you are the places you have said, the feelings you have given, the words you have formed in my mind, I wonder. What small bastions of humanity still left, and will forever be, because they are immortal, universal, and too painful for the wicked to bear. We are the amalgamations of centuries, of ancestors, of failure. To have you in my hands, then maybe to declare your reality, for at once to believe an illusion, is to die. Your inaction speaks as loud as action, the words unsaid share the darkest secrets, and how you watch can only conceive the intent which you hide. In the age of connectivity, the least you can do is show up, and take her hand. Be the light in his heaven, and the darkness in his hell. I will travel, with this bundle of words and a few pages, a pen, maybe a song that carries me toward you. Show me with your lips, these wet instruments that call the rain and the storms and the ancient words that bring down skies. Everything. You asked what I want from you. Everything. What intricacies in her mind, interwoven and resplendent, bound in lace and tied with silk, a knot fit for only him. Open road and endless sky, these things I call hope. The slaughter of tomorrow begins today, as we chisel our newfound love in these ancient trees. I love the way you pretend to be something you aren't. When the cold rays dance and stretch upon your skin, you see her eyes again, like a horizon blessing your sky and becoming the crucifix you pray to. In the end my impatience will get the best of me, as I lean forward and test your lips, and their will. There is an overriding need, present when calm, though unsettling like a buzz, a need perhaps like an ache, to run my fingers on everything within my dying sight. This emptiness is why we exist. Salted tears and potpourri stained her heart. Always another wave in the tide as I climb, for a taste of her sea between my fingers, for a moment she will satisfy me. To the words I speak, show me the way to her, let us bridge this chasm that has long kept us apart, for each breath will otherwise be our loneliness.