by Andrew M. Harbach04 Jul 2015
This--this dream that I cannot have, save within the confines of sleep:
She tucks me in with non-description. I cannot rest, being altogether too affixed towards her lower lip.
It beckons, softly, asking so, to press it with my kiss.
My time, tethered as is, has sent me forth with directions beyond the bearings that we both lack.
And I now kneel lost in an all too apparent and respective compatibility.
I do not hide from sobriety, because it is where I find her most beautiful.
God has manifested a tangible paucity in the weightlessness of her hair and the cross that she wears. With my unholy hands, I hold them both, brushing and bearing... brushing and bearing.
My Spirit fed by this very inspiration.
With a coy and modest smile, from her check bones to her lifted brow.
Her focused face that is water drops on a sunroof brings newness to the warm glowings of hearts that have yet to truly love but beat as if they have before.
Next to me, her posture brings her knees to chest and has her lean tired as birches do.
I gain a will to grow beside her, branching to all the bows beyond my reach. Atop the heights I fail to understand, but that I climb intently towards as if I know what beacons.
By her compassion. Oh, but by her compassion for the garden in its entirety. So pure and empathetic. The song within her holds me stay so that I might only hear one more melody of circadian rhythm. It is here that I close my eyes with her, that I might dream side-by-side for time-and-time again.