You long for the companionship I bring.
But want nothing more
That I could bring.

My love
It is the very core
of ME.

To have it
Is to possess me.

Look at an ancient
Manuscript of poetry
Something Shakespeare wrote.

Can one separate ink from parchment
That wisely yielded its porous surface
to absorb ink into itself?
No. They are one.

Poetry awaits...

Alone, parchment held only potential for beauty.
She knew that she needed ink
to leave his mark
Upon her skin
To be

Can you hold a rose
Yet avoid its fragrance?
Plant lilacs beneath your window
Yet demand the little flowers
Not send their essence
Into your home?

Will you shut your window, then?

“No, Lavender petals,
Do not beckon to me,
Swaying sweetly,
Calling softly, fragrantly, pungently,
Out to me
Tempting me to run outside
And thrust my face
Into handfuls of love
To inhale deeply forever.”

My company.
It is yours already.
My laughter. My smile. My warmth.

Before you Were, I was an idea
In God’s heart for your bliss.

Oh, Darling,
Would that You were ink,
For I, my love, am parchment scroll

And poetry
Its birth.


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