May I take you up?
Down here, I’m a swirl of sound decisions and mad impulses:
To taste the sky, the moon and the canopy of white and green, to bleed it all into words and into art, and to suffer from the incapacity of reproducing it accurately so.
To walk endlessly till the edge of the flat earth, and then on the other side of it too.
To be swathed by the saliva of one who knows unconditional love like no other.
To lay on the ground until dawn, connecting stars into imaginary constellations – stars that seem to send secret messages to one another, forming an impregnable fortress of celestial mystery above us.
To be largely unconcerned with ‘the movement of little green pieces of paper’.
To stand along the seashore with the sand slipping away below – ceaselessly onrushing water all around – and the sun painting away with delicious colours that never existed before so.
To form waves in the passing breeze with the curves of my hand and arm outside a vehicle window.
To ‘throw you down on the lunar surface and commit interstellar perversion’ yet to disregard the ineffable yearning to be loved, to be held and to be saved.
To stand atop the world, finding the universe inside me but losing it at the same time.
Pray, tell me which of these seem sound to you and which do you deem mad.
Down here, spring smells of apples, sir, and it is as intoxicating as it is beautiful:.
The lingering last kiss of winter that melts into the sweltering welcome of the summer haze.
The March sun that slightly scorches the back of my hands and neck (whilst I try not to think of how I’d rather be burnt by your warm skin, nails and teeth).
The restless swishing sound of the wind among the trees outside my window every night, imitating the restlessness in my fingers, heart and toes.
The smattering of rain upon my sill that wakes me before every sunrise, perplexing me with the furious demand to string letters together.
The nervous promise of good things, endings and beginnings that enraptures every cell in my being.
The curve of your back, the whites of your nails, the insides of your palms, the calves of your legs, the creases upon your brow, the shadow of a smile on your pressed lips, the light in your eyes and the droop in your shoulders.
It’s a short way up to the lunar surface, sir.