You will not be meeting me
at the train station,
wearing nothing but a sundress and
the warm scents of
wet desire rising as
a lustful fog
from your steaming forest,
anytime soon.
The heat would **** the sun.
I will not be showing up
on your doorstep,
rigid and pulsing
with the blood of
centuries coursing through
my thick roots,
in the nearest future.
The pressure would crush the moon.
Instead,
I swim in your teacup
and warm baths
while you roam in
the smoke at the edge
of my shadow.
I feel your soft whispers
across the ocean of time
as they float on broken
spiderwebs of memory.
Our love is in the words
between the worlds;
resting in the
wet soil of
an afternoon nap,
we bloom as one.
As the fire of night
descends, destroying
the boundaries of time
and space,
we transcend all that
is cold and unforgiving,
leaving behind only
echos of wanting.