My Dearest,

I want to be the moss on every branch, the dew on every leaf, the shimmering glint of sunlight in your hair and the reason you believe.

That I for you, and you for me, and all the world apart, a glorious mess, bundled chaos, a life that I’ll call art.

In grainy film and cafe tune, the stroke of brush and summer moon, I hear your voice and know the truth, that I’m for you.

You’re for me, my dearest, such is life, though worlds apart, and time, and strife.

I can hear your breath in wind and stream, your gentle laugh in rustling trees, and see your eyes aglow in sunrise slow, horizon low.

It’s an ever changing and ever known, the anarchical wonder of seeds quick sown.

And though the time may come to pass, and shifting moments never last, I hope you’ll smile at thought of me and crystalline recall what we could always be.

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