you are there
you are something
i think that you are easily dreamless.
you are the white
turning over of pale morning
into your neck and the pooled freshness of your breasts.
you are these two things:
my hands–which make within
themselves bloodsong and wine.
finely twined with pale wire,
your eyes rest below your scalp:
they are chips of ice–limpid; nude.
(you stir you pull your hand into my
hand i kiss over the sleeping of your
white cheeks i stroke your golden hair
i slip my leg under your leg:
I can never touch enough of you.)
I know I tell you this all the time, but I love you so much. I'm so unbelievably thankful to have you in my life. You are the most perfect woman I have ever met.
I know you are sleeping right now, and I know it's the most beautiful thing on this earth, because I have watched you sleep, curled up next to me. The neat calmness of your face, the way your hair falls across your cheek–I love it, I love it so much.
I want to be prefect for you. I want to make you happy and fill every moment of your life with joy.
I feel stupid. These words just aren't what I want them to be. I wish I could truly tell you how much I care about you, but I just can't seem to put it the right way.
You are always within me. You are within my blood and soul. You are within every pulse of my heart, every lash of sunlight, every strain of laughter that passes from my lips.
I'm going to do my best to love you and treat you with the care and respect that you deserve. I know I'm not perfect, but please know that I am trying to be better.
I wish I could kiss you. I wish I was laying next to you tonight. I wish I could kiss your brow, and nuzzle you with my nose. I wish I could lay my hand across your skin and feel the heat of it pour through my skin.
Sleep softly and soundly, my love. I will think and dream of you tonight.
I hope you read this in the morning. I hope that some small amount of what I want to say comes through this to you.
I will think about you tomorrow while I'm at work. I will imagine the feeling of your hand in mine. I will remember the warm smell of your chest. I will think of you and love you, and my love will guide me to work hard and honestly. To do what ever I need to do to make our life as good as it can be.
I love you so much. Sleep well. I can't wait to see you again.
my love, i give you my life
the lips totally which
are for only your lips;
my love, my hands are
your hands, my mouth
is your mouth, my love
my fingers are the brushing
of sunlight, against which
your skin folds effulgent;
my love, my fingers are
the blithe petals of Spring
damp within your roots:
(you are the cool and dark
soil of Summer, my love,
you are within each curling
of my breast, each turning
of my blood through stem
my love, i love thee,
the burnished gold
of your scalp, the
mute laughter of
your eyes; my love,
i am made and unmade
within your hands
open me–in this thy woken self;
please me be, within thy cloven helth.
loose thy lock:
o' woven skin and flock of grass,
where Spring hath root
and worm has pass.
be this blithe o' bonny bell
that peels in darkness a golden tell;
for thee, for thou, my hands are made,
to tend thy soul
, and flowing glade.
"Well I suppose I realized at a certain point how important physical affection is for me. Touching and being touched is immensely satisfying and reassuring to me. I only ever really feel alive when I'm near someone–kissing them, smelling them, the heat of their skin soaking my skin. It's the only thing I really want. It's the only reason I'm still alive.
For that moment. That perfect moment when someone opens themselves to me in that way. That first parting of their lips, the taste of their saliva. The taste of their neck. The feeling of their wrists in my hands. That openness, that vulnerability and surrender. Saying without saying, 'touch me, love me, fuck me–I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours.'"