I Have Been Building Myself Like a House for You
I will wait for the day you send love out into the world with reckless wonder like a message in a bottle that washes ashore to me the day I find my childhood baseball mitt and peel back a flap of leather that reveals your return address.
Until then I’m building myself like a house for you, so feel free to move in whenever.
You are fire flower paper blood and I am honey coffee water sun.
Watch witches stir us in a cauldron and fulfill our prophecy as inevitable as time.
Sometimes you’re a pinball machine in the dark hours after the arcade has closed, pinging and singing with indefatigable possibility and light.
Other times you’re a night light and I am four.
Every morning reverberates in pitch-black as an orchestra tunes itself towards endless possibility.
Every night our bodies are music, dream puzzles tessellating to infinity.
You’re a tour guide walking backward holding the flag of some small nation.
I am all the versions of myself in our matching yellow hats shuffling with wonder through a hidden city.
We are chickens and our severed heads are on the ground as our bodies flee out of sight.
We go out laughing about a joke neither of us can remember.
Today smells like the first day of fall and every morning afterwards smells like a new season I didn’t know existed.
You’re like wafting a world that has never known war.
When I’m with you I convince myself that all the violence in the world is just a bad dream; the devil’s fan fiction.
Maybe you are a peace machine. Maybe this is how we destroy violence.