I don't quite understand you; it is as if you are a word in a foriegn language that I can't completely wrap my mouth around--but I try to desperately, willing my tongue and tonsils to coax the song across my palate with grace so that one day I may pass as a native speaker of your bliss. So please, have patience with my fumbling.
Still, I court you, tempted by your sighs and tickles, or the way you put my life into perspective with a playful shrug of your shoulder and, all at once, my too-hot flame is a joyful spark. You are Coyote, tempting my off the straight and narrow, that dull anemic path that leaves nothing but an empty cup and a heavy soul. Okay then, I say, when you cross my path. Let's go. Let's get lost in the desert, drunk on the stars, dizzy with the moon. I won't even pause to catch my breath or search my dictionary to make sure I have the right words for you. They will come on their own.
Yes, you can kiss me--though I know you would even without my permission. That's what makes you, you. And I reach for you in return, seduced by your mercurial touch, grateful for the way you ground me back into my body, my life (for even you, you seemingly flighty creature, have a way of bringing both the lightness of a summer's night and the weight of roots grounding garden herbs into my bones).
I need you; and though I know you've heard this before from countless others, on hundreds of other rendezvous, know this: you are my necessity, my home. You bring wings to my discipline and joy to my focus; you are my rosebud, my compass. Without you, there would be no breath.
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