My tender limbs seek relief.
Not from a foretime’s impetuous work weeding the beds,
A different, deep, enthralling ache bellows from my core.
I only long to be with him.
To laugh, beam in a concert of rapture,
Indubitable joy in hewed lines on our faces,
Burrow tight dancing to phantom music,
Sit under a canopy of magnolia inspirit with sweet fragrance,
Touching fingertips, softly embracing possibility.
Such afternoon of unencumbered bliss,
A yearning so urgent,
My lashes wet with anticipation.
Yet, there is pause.
Does his mental palace brim with equal urgency,
Thus grounds for the sudden stir within me?
If an invisible tie should bind,
Where shall I find reprieve?
Truth portrays brighter than fiction.
Maybe this is nothing,
Perhaps he is everything,
The solstice awaiting our return.