I want to show you the abandoned house, the salt pans that stretch for miles, the shamelessness of a hibiscus, the magnesium sunset of home.
When the pull for you becomes so great I run my hand through my hair until there are sparks, and I know you have come across the thousand one hundred and nineteen miles for me in your sleep. I want to show you in ways I do not yet know, that I no longer miss you but feel you constantly like a phantom limb from an amputation. I want to find the courage that tells of our disparate lives and how that is enough, on some days, for me to turn my back on hope for ever. I would like to show you-wordlessly-this enormous crater of love that resides within me that no amount of birdsong will ever fill. And about the fact that I think about having to wait to die to be born again just to come and find you, and how it sometimes exhausts me, sometimes make me wish for it quickly, quickly, now. I love you to the point of being beside myself but when I look at my hands they are the same. Untouched. Open. Ignorant. They are stupid and bare unfathoming of the kind of violence I am capable of plotting. I am sorry and I am not sorry. I am a hundred different things all at once and I have understood finally, finally, how love is an insanity.
I am shy and I am bold. I am hungry and I am full. I am a child ready to die. I am willing to wait and I am impatient. And I am yours. I am yours. Like nothing else has known belonging before this, I am yours.