Anatomy of Anticipation

When I first gave myself to you it wasn’t through desire, or even admiration. Those addictions blossomed independently in days and years to follow. No, the first time you came blazing into my world like a comet, it was simply because you could see it. All those dark-dreamed places where I’d sat, alone and amazed, for as long as I could remember. Places where seas could whisper eons, where twisted black trees bore souls and secrets, where hope was enough to build empires upon. You saw me there, dressed in my stories and songs, and you crossed the divide to join me, and I knew that you belonged. And when we lay breathing, still, side-by-side and calling shooting stars into being, there was no need for words, because we knew.

Years later, I am alone, and everything is a piece of you. The bank of curling cloud that kisses shining seas. The grim ghosts of castles dancing on the cliffs. Orion’s belt gleaming in a smoke-scented sky, and the stark white sheets of the bed we once shared. In this limbo state of disrepair, the raw materials of the wonderland we built remind me of how maybe, just maybe, this was your world all along.

And how can I find words to convince you from here, when I need so much to hear it myself, that at the end of every terraced row is a left-hand path that leads, if you will it, to an ever-tangled wood that smells of black earth and lingering petrichor? And how, if you follow the broadening brook past caves and crumbling bridges, you will find a windswept promontory, where I will be waiting for you?

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