:::epitome:::

i wish for you Sweet Sundays, my love,
and freedom from every vacant memory
that finds you where you are.
i wish for your Song to rise out of your chest
like a river and for your mouth to find
the purest breasts that have never been lain against.

i wish for the salt  that you hide in your eyes to spill Honey,
and your vagueness to clarify within a dream
and spin round our bodies until sickened with truth.
i wish for all wants to cease and for time, and fear
to disarm themselves and close the circle of their cruel spell.

i wish for Silence of my thought, and Stillness of my blood.
from a distance i am close and in your arms i remain your birthright.
lovers and dead men, Kings and fools, Vagrants, liars, Virgins...
they are writing about it, and singing about it, and killing themselves for it.
For what love? Not for this...this love is the first in all of time.
This is the beginning of love.

:::amber.hart.sinclair:::