Your voice is in my mind and I’m connected to the ground. Heart with this new resounding rhythm beats beneath my ribs and I grow almost frantic with the idea you’ve somehow become further away. Or is it me? Sometimes I get so afraid in distance and misunderstanding that I panic and try to grip to things I already know. Know and love are separate things, and you must reason with the actuality that love is deeper, more resolute than knowing another persons name.

It’s harder here. I’m reflecting through these dreams I’ve had of you in the past, where I didn’t know your voice as well. I wasn’t as afraid of the sea-blue rug as I am now. The way your breath pulled me into sleep and I fought with every blink to stay with you, wanting to tell you so much more than what I was saying, looking for subtle chances to dive deeper within you because this is the great thrill of knowing a stream of life --

Ending sentences is beginning to unnerve me. Poetry reactions, splitting lines through their seams, my thoughts down the middle to catch a beat in the expression of words; and it’s pointless, really, when I think on it. When I re-read these paragraphs and cower from the world in my pajamas while my sisters’ cat nudges my ankle as my mother begs for coffee as if it will uphold sanity. And still, in all of this, I remember climbing to the roof, catching the flood of stars in the syllables of your name and holding tight to the streaks of light by closing my eyes and wishing for you to see me, to really see me, to come and swim within me.

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