In all of this frenzied noise, your peculiar voice was plucked into my life. Of all these paths and steps, ours crossed. The glint in your gaze bumped into mine, and there was an esoteric intertwinement. Every misdirectional turn led me to you. You are now another entity that inhabits my thoughts. You are someone I yearn to tell the mundane, the wailing in the streets, the grinding of teeth, the wound of a pricked hand, golden daylight, when I bow my head into my hands with little tired eyes, dreams, and blissful breaths that inflate my lungs. When I am scarce of you, I sit at my smooth, wooden-textured desk, cluttered and indeed ragtag, with a row of books threatening to fall over like dominoes. Alongside my favorite records twirling on the vinyl player that scratch my brain just right. My fingers firmly grip around my pen as I push its cold button gently against my temple in a repeated pattern. It seems to magically infuse the spinning cogs in my mind to send their tinkering down to the godsent ballpoint that glides through, bubbling, leaking ink, and creating curves and streaks for a beloved friend. Hoping they take these words I string for them like a seed and plant them with belief as my tree barked hair, coffee eyes, and chipped polished nails swing with me into every universe to religiously write for them.
It tugs the corners of my mouth when I imagine myself cosplaying a messenger in another enchanted lifetime, for instance, stepping into a folklore placed in the early 20th century. My fingers would vamoose from one letter to another on a typewriter, sparkling with the ray of sunlight that highlights my pining. Above me would be a cuckoo clock meticulously carved from the arboreal cathedrals that come from the Black Forest. I would then rip the page out, lace up my shoes, careful not to crease it inside the messenger bag, slide on my cloak, light the lantern with a match, and make my way across the creaking floorboards to the doorway to endeavor the rendezvous patch. I would go through the unmappable, foreign paths for this deliverance with benevolent will-o-the-wisps guiding me. I would cross bridges, wade creeks, slip into rabbit holes, evade the monsters lurking in the corners of splintered trees, and ultimately have a laughing spree as I’m splendidly drawing aces to get to you.
More lives continue flashing before my eyes, perhaps in another time and place, as we develop as an age old classic in the ancient world. I would travel in a brisk, dazzling chariot with galloping horses being steered by a conductor clenching his hands around the reins and with folds in my gown as I clutch onto the letter. Perchance, I would place tiny messages in a capsule that would leave you with a fallen jaw, sent through a pigeon carrier on its leg, intrinsically returning to me with your words to breathe. In the same olden days, I could be a child bolting through the streets to the bewitching dwelling you reside in with such swell disposition by my side and the anticipation of banging on the door to fancy you with mail.
Do you and I also exist in the young years of the 19th century? The script follows that we met in a crowded street when we were wagging our faces around, a scene stealer in my eyes, spontaneously locking in between the flock. Since then, oh did my waltzing quill clink against the inkwell with its delicate point reflect the thrill in my sternum onto the rustic paper with such elegance and eloquence every week. Swirled you into all of my poems. The constantly rekindled candlelight’s incandescent glow bears witness to every syrupy wax stamp that marks another work of the mastermind that’s thinking just for you.
There’s a chance in these storybooks and fantasies that we aren’t even humans, but belong to the flora and fauna. One can be the warm sun, while the other is a flower sprouting with petals flung open wide resting upon a fallen log overtaken by moss. As with this silent language, the flowers, in time, always bend toward the sun.
These thoughts are all so ridiculously beautiful. We seem to march and frolic relentlessly into every time frame for our fidelity has no finish line. How marvelous it is to have a grand heft of luck always hovering over me. It fills me with the sensation that your name belongs beyond paper, but in lights with all the constellations. May we long live through these chapters of indelible marks. We are truly infinite. We are timeless.
