Red Ink on Blue Paper

Red Ink on Blue Paper

It was fate, I have no doubt about it.
There’s not a damn thing I can do,
I’ll never stop loving you.
I could tell you, every day and more,
the well is bottomless, the supply eternal of
the elixir that intoxicates me.

I wondered how many times I will drink of it,
will my thirst ever be assuaged? Or
will this liquid that has transfixed me
keep my feet walking to you. I’ve stammered,
perhaps because there is a place I want to dwell with
room enough only for two.

I’ve seen the surface of you, and I’ve sounded the depths.
And I keep exploring, new, yet, and next. I know I have
layers
I’m still afraid to lay bare. I have words to say, and then
I run away, leaving only vowels behind.
I could write a note, red ink on blue paper,
and leave it where you would find it. And leave it
behind for you to read after
I’ve long since departed.

I’ve held back in too many conversations. I’ve
not asked the questions, I’ve not made the declarations.
But one day, perhaps late before the sun goes down,
I might take your hand,
kneel on the grass,
ask the question you asked me a lifetime ago
(and tremble, not knowing what to say).

Other lives, next life,
and still it is this life.

The same way you adore the sun,
the same way it warms your skin,
is the same way I adore you,
the same way you warm me again.

Living is so lovely now, even if it’s dreams and
imagination. But the pain leaves at
the very thought of you.