Dearest. The canopy alike. A breath, it walks from my lips and into the quiet of this desert. I am only eyes The infinite mind. Inflammable and still up in question. Life burns up the soul of man like nothing else. There is only the space between ego and humility that matters. My feet tread lightly, the mirth of my moor, the hill where I rise in the day, every day I climb awake and champion the music of the sun, its billions of hearts and eyes. Two years younger and I thought I owned this. Beauty. Love. Where does it come from? Out of the pages of a book or between the bindings of its casing? This mesmerizing charm light splitting the lines of my hands and my feet and my face. I wear it with me like a child's toy into the city when I go, the country where I sleep. I prayed for your wellness, took you by car into the pastures beyond the mountains overlooking the ocean, into the high points of the low and verdant valleys where the cows and horses fed on fertile grapeleaves and wild grasses. Nearly the wind took us to sea. Hot sand beaches where we laid in low tide and let the water spread among our limbs until we couldn't tell where you ended or I began, where our breaths tasted the same. I make you in my hand. Eat you from the tips of my fingers. One is the beach and the day, where I prayed to let your weight never be taken from me, that I should carry you through the softness of the sea and through its shadowy empires. Man becomes invincible, his beast disappears, only the blue of his eyes remain. The black of his pupil is the oil that makes us all the same. And the round world floats its children through its kingdoms so that they may eat until the sunlight touches their eyes again. Your hands on my teeth, in my mouth, against my head. I could not have been closer unless I lived inside of you. Time takes all of the words out of history and leaves only the faces and landscapes. A glint of redolent flower that swept through the air, or a hot meal that drew the day long. I am only your eyes. Blue and green. The jazz of you in my spine, against my chest, your hands piercing through my chest past my ribs and holding my plum red heart in your tiny fingers, upright and firm, sharing every breath. The sea that is my sister your brother, that is my mother your father, that opens the soul and lets the sky blue sky weep its tepid orange sunlight deep into our pores. I am never richer nor poorer in the milk wet silver light of the winter moon. What would you have of me to do? A walk of bare feet through the pinetum? An antiquary in the empire of romance?  So many hands I have brought to my face. So many words I've took to my pen. These are the names that take me from you. The space between insatiable lust so many states far away. I dream of your crown of gold on a Saturday, we walked Goethe in the Summer, seven months and fifteen days ago.