Before the primordial ooze, there was you.

Before the primordial ooze, there was you.  Where the light slid seamlessly from wood to lake to fish to the thing that emerged with a full heart and scillia moving fretfully into the light...there was you to greet the first longing.  By the light of the unrelenting sun you beat down your desire like an off-gassing landfill: toxic and attractive with the smell of pineapple stretching across fresh dewy skin.  Like a teen beating with the pulse of a resolute  and passionate heart you deliver an elixir of excitement greater than the sum of your parts.

I am as old as you are and I know your name.  I would scream it into the stark moon that shines tonight if it weren't for the broken bones you hide.  I would uncover your weakness for all its hideousness if it weren't for the hideousness I cradle in my own breast like the endless moving tides, like the afterlife with second thoughts, with hesitation and tears.

We are the same.  You and me.  We look like enemies but we cherish the same principle from opposite ends.  Call it what you will, we are no different from each other than the soil from the compost.  We become each other.  We weave, we spin, we knit into the moon like dark twin sisters.  You still spit while I receive it passively.  On this night especially.  When the spirits rise, the candles whinny, and the night drawls out in accents earthy and sporous. 

Wet like the inception and as serious as the beginning, we are here with each other: rich and poor.  I will say your name, laced with Spanish moss and the silk of Orb Weavers freshly woven into the light.  You and I are not separate.  We are not strangers of birth.  We are the same seed divided and loved by earth.  Flickering with light into the great sea of stars- as strong as the milky way- as infinite as the universe.  Just you and I.  Just what we are.

Simple like seeds thrown from umbels into the damp of winter by relentless winds.

In the calm I say your name and you answer.

In the calm is our own prayer.  Private like communion, private like penance.

There are no walls here besides the stones which hold us in formation. 

There is only the sister speech.  The binding pain.  The laborious distance between abuse and relief.  We tread this tenderly, like emaciated prisoners of war.  You and I.  Connected by discipline and desire.  You and I.  Connected by love and calling.

The light stretches across your planes like a desperate caress; dropping shadows across your spirit like a deep recess. 

Don't mistake me!  Hear what I am thinking with your skin, with your strength, with you will...

What is best in you I always see.  You may stumble.  You may trip across the road with your entrails aching to unravel behind you and I will know, I will understand, and I will offer you a trough in which to rest them.  What you are is what I love.  What you are is what I value.  I will always ask for more in the deficit of light but when the sun rises on what is real I know who you are.  Always.  I know.

I am not psychic, but I am full of love.