I know that this fire
Will subside, at some point
I think… I also think not
Our love is a product of, of everything. Did we make these moments, or just write them once we found ourselves in them. I can not believe that we could have created them, and I know that I could not have written them so beautifully with anyone else. It’s your hand in mind –with fingers interlocked, that have crafted them with such intensity.
Our Moment was always supposed to be ours. These moments – all of them are all part of our Big Moment. My Mistress Muse, each of our moments are only a poem on a page; each page a new page, a new moment, a new short story, which, in the end all come together as Our Pages in Our Book. Though we can not see the book’s ending, we see this page. The next moment on the next page will come when we write it.
It is tough, at times, because we want to see the end so we can know a little better as to how we should write this moment, on this page, but, but, my Muse, my Love, we cannot see what we have not yet written, in this big wonderful book that Creation’s Lover has given us. So let us not pull our hands from these pages; but write, write as if all of our reason and purpose depended on it.
Muse, let me write with you as if there was but one book to be written. Let’s write boldly, deeply, and leave marks and indention’s on the pages underneath so that when we turn each leaf there is no question of the passion that was written on the pages before. Let’s leave marks, yes, marks, so heavy in the fabric of our pages that we become too convicted to write anything less than what we know to be true.
My Muse, My Mistress Muse, I have loved the pages we have written. I have read them over and over in my mind, and in my heart, and they contain life. We are alive, Love. And though I don’t know how our book ends, I know it ends well. But we are not there yet. So write with me! Write, Love, as if you have never written before, lose yourself with me Muse, so that we can find us, and set fire to these pages. The book cannot burn, but is always on fire, because we are on fire.
Write with me, My Muse, don’t stop; not even to take a breath. Write, write, write! Take my hand as you have taken my heart, and place it on the page and exhale. Push and pull and curve each letter, form every word with purpose, smith every line and sentence just as it is meant to be. Press every coma, and period, every jot and tittle- a touch of perfection.
Write with your soul, Muse, I am giving nothing less to you. Write with me, my Love, my Muse, write with me! I can’t stop writing, and I won’t, I am yours and this writing is ours, and these poems, and these pages, and these moments belong to you and they belong to me, because, because this is our book to write.
So then, let’s write so well, so real, so on fire and so damn hot, that when the Creator, The Lover, takes this book in His hands to see what we have done with what He has given us, He finds that what we have created: written with our hands, and love, and passion, and actions… even causes Him to forget to take a breath
…so that He sits in silence, smiling.
