You are the birth of the art of life unyielding.
You brush love across my belly with the colours of your words
I taste your touch, breathing in the visions of which you speak without the slightest doubt,
and for the first time, I dare to dream it could be mine.
Yours.
Ours.
Hours of time fly across broken strings in my body, mending them with the inflections of your voice,
that heady chalice of vapoured honey which oozes from your throat, and into my soul.
I dare to dream.
Can you see how I love you?
Can you see how time and space themselves are thrown down, falling from high places, when you speak?
Can you see that the name of "Patrona" which you appropriated for a vocation,
IS you,
truly,
at your most fervored being?
You are a tsunami of softness,
A chiffon-twist whisp of an unchained lightning, flashing prism.
The flames you pour across the miles slam me to the wall and gently rip open places that were closed.
I smile because you view them.
I smile because those vulnerable, tender worlds inside of me are safe with you.
The touch of your eyes meets the parts of me that have fashioned a downcast gaze,
The laugh of your throat, like a traverse on a thundering iron horse, bids those downcast eyes to look up once more, and live again.
"Rise Woman, RISE," you say without words, in a poetry written upon air and vibrations.
Tears come, but they are no companion of grief.
They are the longing of lifetimes and the blur-cast search across the Abyss for your moon-cast candle, in the wooded terraces of the Inferno.
Can you see how I love?
Can you see how I love you?
Can you see that no matter the whirlwind that you shut behind yourself when you walk in the door, the honeyed and plush spaces inside are ours?
And I will forever wrap you up against the blowing rain, holding you fast because you hold me fast.
The blistering caress of two unfaltering embraces, unbroken, unbowed, unconquered.
Oceans.
Time.
Angst.
These are countries through which I have slogged.
You are a luxuriant, unfettered, peninsular field of flowers and thorns,
and with laughter like a wind chime's song, running my fingers across petals, my feet move unscarred,
touching the tips of softness and the pointed fierceness of the Dragon-Wolf Queen.
I am a canvas painted on by my own hand, unfinished.
And with love and the magnificent realization of a dream manifested in you, I smile my crooked smile,
let slide a tear down my thunderstruck soul,
and hand you a brush.
-Gypsy ©2019 Melissa Alexander, Gypsy, The Gypsy Shadow http://thegypsyshadow.blogspot.com/2019/04/the-whispering-tempest.html