Ink bleeds softly on thin paper,
your words, like strokes of painted light,
arrive, a week delayed, a world away.
I trace the curve of your imagined hand,
the ghost of pigment, the scent of distant rain,
a landscape formed from sentences, and sighs.
My desk, a cluttered altar, holds your art,
a still life of our unspoken dreams,
within a Garden of Whispers, softly spun.
The brush you wield, a whispered secret,
creates worlds I can only touch in thought.
Your canvas blooms with colors I have missed,
a vibrant echo of your absent smile.
Each letter, a portrait of your soul,
revealed in glimpses, shadows, and soft hues.
We build a Garden of Whispers, line by line,
a sanctuary where our spirits meet,
a place where distance cannot truly steal.
The moon, a silent witness to our words,
hangs heavy in the night, a silver coin.
I write by candlelight, the shadows dance,
a phantom audience to my devotion.
My pen, a clumsy instrument of love,
attempts to capture what your art conveys.
I yearn for touch, for shared and simple breath,
within this Garden of Whispers, we reside,
a moment where the ink and paint collide.
The year revolves, a slow and aching dance,
of paper ships that sail across the miles.
I wait for spring, for your returning hand,
to paint the landscape of a living day.
My heart, a canvas stretched and waiting still,
for your arrival, for your vibrant touch.
The letters fade, the ink begins to pale,
yet in this Garden of Whispers, love remains,
a masterpiece, etched in the soul’s long hall.
I combined this into a "****-Narrative" style, with a 9-8-9-8 structure, and striving to use no rhymes....
The subject of this was the year-long correspondence with my GF. Reflecting on what it is I love about her. Though written as if we were still using pen and paper, I meant to express the power of words and art to bridge the gap that distance has created. It reflects on longing, love, and the intimacy shared through correspondence and creative expression.
