Imagine your hand is
one hundred days older
Than the hand you use now.
Look at your hand.

What will that hand hold,
in one hundred days from now?
What will that hand have push away
that changes the next one hundred days?

Your hand is younger than it is now
than it will be in one hundred days.
In one hundred days, this hand will
mould and shape and change each way.

This hand is the age you are now,
and this hand is not eternal.
This hand helps you to write and pick up
what you need; reflexes from danger, sometimes.

One hand in one hundred days may be
marked, with a burn or scar or a tattoo.
The other hand may be softer, because
you wore gloves or moisturised by choice.

Or maybe this hand in one hundred days
Will be blistered, from harm you fought with wonder.
Maybe this hand is a blessing forgotten
And you reach for another coffee.

So why are you so focused
on what happened one hundred days ago?
The hand moves, clenches, rests, changes,
like time too.

I want you to be the paint that drips on my canvas
our bodies brush to create something beautiful

Nature takes lovers back as if to create them a second time
Anyone deserted might be inspired; that fierce, soaring, object-less love
Perhaps the most ancient of sufferings finally grows fruitful for us
Isn't it time we lovingly freed ourselves from the beloved?

How you move so fluidly
I’ll never know how
All I have are my eyes
Trying desperately to take as much of you in as I can

I want to be what inspires you
What you dance to in the morning while the coffee is brewing
And our bed is still warm

I’ll share with you every word I have
Nearly every one will be about you
Even if we should come to an end
I know I could never stop what pours from this bleeding heart

If you keep rhythm in your feet
I’ll keep lyrics in my lungs
So we may constantly be what the other needs
To keep going

The truth is
it can't be created.
It can only be found.