you are mine. and not mine. all yours.
you are the liquid white. the ink of a pinecone. i am your carrot. we lean on the sea. we rise in our melting. our love learns to swirl with our work. our barking diminished by ritual. this sweetness not sickening, enough to return to each day. your sniffles have even become meaningful. we lay in the moment and pray, in a way that is not prayer, but play. too dear for a blessing or eulogy, too close for an offering or song, too fragrant for a clearing or candle. too much to ever leave you alone.