I call to you, with stars
in my eyes, and a hope
that takes over my timbre.
Giving voice to the void

that separates internal
from
external,
through the minuscule aperture,

like a photograph with no light behind
but only foregrounded you.
No leaves or trees or paths
or edits to the memory -

natural
and glorious
and vivid
and you.

You alone.

I call to you alone
when you are all -
marks of tread through my heart
and love, a whole lot.

All I need, and no less
despite the behavioural
incongruence (hushed
and veiled).

So much says otherwise,
but does not so much
say as such?

I call to you, drowning
beneath the surface of
a puddle;
no, a pool;
now a lake,

impossible to fracture
the top frosted over,
beating my hands endlessly against.
The water blue flows crimson.

My heart beats,
until it stops.
And in the quiet,
she breathes.

I breathe too, and
my heart restarts,
her exhales electrochemical,

jolting me to wakefulness
and bringing my heart
to life
once more.

It's the nothings, the calm,
just the way she is
that gives you the breathless love.

Let her in. Gosh -
just let her in.
Let her love you because
she does.

Oh, slow your heart
or she will know.
Slow,
or the dream will end.

Let her love you
without loving you
the same.

Let it be, ok?
Let it be ok.
Let it be.

There is love
and it is bright, vibrant,
and it will shine through
any darkness.

She is everything in herself -
let her evolve.
That is life;
that is love...

That is love.