It was a sturdy ship that I went down in, and it felt like rebirth when I drowned and emerged from the tumbling surf to wring out my hair and tie a knot in my skirt. (I learned to breathe by nearly drowning.)
but nothing of the woman who chooses words with such precision to lead your eyes to only pretty frames; a portrayal of desire, sensuality, a provocative anomaly— who lights up every time you say her name.
A poem falls short; I'd like, instead to draw a single line from me to you and watch it curl into a word so beautiful it's still unsaid – or press paper to the window pane so that the day might saturate a note that brightly warms your hands, spills birdsong from imagined trees and buzzes like fat bumblebees, but I am bound by language, love; I can't.
A gentle tempest stormed my lawn; it stood me still and then was gone. Anchored, awestruck in my place by beauty and euphoric grace, I thought of Spinoza's God, infinity's precise design, the perfect math of Everything – our love, a quotient of Divine.
no scandalous, empyrean beauty; not the beauty of long legs and sleepless nights, not transcendental, not diaphanous; no ambrosia, no absinthe; no earthly Aphrodite to crush your heart with slender hands. No,
not the kind of beauty that makes disciple out of man;
our secrets, they rhyme darkly and your heart is beating sharply, and tonight I'll make you love me while I can.