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So Natural

So natural to write words
A voice in the heart
Sings concepts through fingers.
In the quiet hours of pre-dawn,
You glide through my heart,
Ethereal, sublime, surreal.
All that’s left are the moments,
Special times met with delicious sexual tensions,
As real and present as the morning sun.
We parlay through our snippets of companionship,
Enjoying.
Laughing.
Crying.
Running through thunderstorms.

So natural to write words
Playthings which draw ever-dotted-line-lives to the page.
Low-tide castles to be obliterated by the sea of time,
Rebuilt as often as we desire,
As often as we may afford the energy,
As often as love cannot be silenced,
As often as breath allows.
And in those moments when you swipe my breaths away,
All I may do is smile.
For the castle rebuilds itself.
Despite me.
Despite you.

So natural to write words
Pale imitation beings which carry the colors of a rainbow.
The passions of a lover.
The musings of brilliance.
The silliness of a man gone bonkers.
And discover knowing love is all.
Not that this concept ever stood in doubt,
But that we own the privilege to love and be loved.
In life, we drastically underestimate love’s scope.
To play once again with possibilities.
Dreams.
Passions.
With eyes directly off the horizons of love.
Fresh with perspective.
Wizened by age.
Fueled by a soul more open than ever.

So natural to write words.
Inadequate to the task,
Yet a beauty interlaced because of connection,
Not to any one person other than self,
Connecting the dots of life which appear random and chaotic,
Which they are indeed.
Yet when one steps back and surveys the insane landscape of the page,
A transcendent beauty emerges from the mess.
An otherworldly view of life and times.
Joy.
Pain.
Happiness.
Sorrow.
Elixirs to sip as fine wines.
To cherish.
To smile upon in their infantile pursuits.
To carry, not upon your back, but within the peace of memories loved

So natural to write words.
Expressions brought to the page.
Love songs.
Stories.
Passions.
Praises.
Diabolical attacks.
Yet through their mists,
Carnages of nonexistent battles,
Witnessed within,
Battles of what to do with love,
Whose folly lies not in their sometimes foolish expression,
But more so in those expressions restrained.
Those which struggled for freedom,
Those clung to in fear.
For what manic power comprises words,
But the inner self striving for release,
Through a medium poorly constructed,
And a heart beautifully crafted.

So natural to write words.
Darkened mornings of sultry wishes.
Extravagant dreams of what may be.
So easily washed away by dawns harsher light.
But now, for those who see,
Who feel,
Who understand more of life’s true essence,
I see you.
Your power.
Your beauty.
Your natural grace disguised in clumsy conventions.
Constructs of your mind, heart, and soul.
And while I stroll in your garden of love,
Which, more directly stated,
Are the delicious moments we share in time,
I’m reminded that love and passion within this soul,
Within my core essence,
Are intended for use.
For focus.
For release.
For sharing.

So natural to write words.
All the more lovely to have your left hand scribble on my page.
The impermanence of this life threatens to wipe our slates,
Yet we continue to draw.
For words only exist as tools for artists
Who delight in crafting their thoughts and dreams and nightmares,
Creating colors typically through black and white symbols,
To convey the spectrums of good and evil within,
Both being important,
Both being connected,
Just like you and I.

One day.
“One days” never happen
We quicken ourselves to them
Or they die the quiet deaths of fleeting dreams.

One day
We will have each other.
Or not.
Either will define us in some manner.
Either will impact us in some manner.
Neither scenario will destroy us.

So natural to write words.
To state a case.
To paint with the tools of passion.
So natural to write of love.
Desire.
Hope.
Through each day as follies and victories rise,
Each as fragrant as the other,
The fact you glide as a misted ghost,
Materializing in moments,
Disappearing in the space between breaths,
Only lends smiles to an inner face.
For you are the wind.
Beautiful beyond all seeing.
Lightest of touches.
Unseen furies to tussle existence.
Soothing in your softness.
Frightening in your capacity to rage.
Missed sorely in your silence.
Cherished beyond imagination in your merest of touches.
You are owned by no one,
Yet you visit us all through your loving touch.

So natural to write words.
So natural for you to blow in and out of my life,
For your life follows the paths of ghosts.
Those of us fortunate for your touch,
May only wait and hope for another.

So natural to write words.
These words stand true –
Trust me.

A plea to the breezes of love,
That they may touch my soul,
And in return, be offered relief.
If only in moments,
For as we know,
Moments are all that’s allowed us,

Which is oh so natural…