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.