Have you ever tried to hold water
in your hands and
timed how long you could
before the water slipped through?

And, you try it,
over and over again,
squeezing your hands more tightly together,
trying to prevent it from running down your arms.

That,
my love,
is the equivalent
to loving you.

I love when
Your hand
Runs from my legs
To my waist
From my hair
To my neck.

I love when
You look
From my eyes
To my lips
From the ground
To my silhouette.

I love when
You trace
From my cheek
To my chin
From my jaw
To my chest.

I love when
You kiss
From my wrist
To my fingers
From my ear
To my eye.

I love when
You love
From my head
To my feet
From my beginning
To my end.

It's a book of letters to myself
To remember my loss,
My grief and heartache.

It's a counseling mechanism
To maneuver easily between periods of time,
Lonely increments and shallow waters.

It's a group of papers and inked pen
To imprint and scar a white destitute,
An empty canvas, an unwritten book.

It's the company of three dimensional personalities
To converse and decipher identity,
Purpose, spirituality, and direction.

It's a rhythmic set of words
To convey my need for self-actualization,
Importance of thought and a barrage of unspoken ideas.