Raining on Odinsday

I am stalking through your words, though perhaps stalking is not the right word. I glide through them soundlessly, save for when one brushes me and bursts inside my head. I linger near these the longest, watching the afterglow, like light from distant supernovae, begin to vanish, to coalesce until the explosion is a word again. I am marked, I think, by these eruptions of power. Changed in some fundamental way. Better, for having embraced it.

I'm wandering through your words with purpose, but without aim. Sometimes familiar places and sometimes new ones. It's dreary here today, the kind of day when I set aside most everything in favor of a long novel and a cup of tea. I should be working. There are weeds to wack and holes to dig. Dishes to be done. I should be curled up on the couch with a story and a hint of honey and cranberries. Instead, I'm wandering in your closets looking for monsters and through fields of fireflies. I'm wandering through deserts and old houses with floorboards cracked like fractured bones. Words are stories, and your words are each a story of your life. A thousand of them on your back, and still you are never bowed by them. Brought low by weight and time and miles. I never come here to watch you hurt, but sometimes the pain I see is a sort of euphoria. The ecstasy of creation.

I come more often to see you dance. There is a kind of recklessness to those words. A deep, intoxicating freedom in them that I find brings my tongue to life. It sparks and surges until new songs are pouring out of my lungs. Words of my own stories fluttering by and seizing upon the moment. Nuitari's unseen magic, perhaps. The dark moon hung in the sky and driving us mad.

I come to witness your desire, the way your skin looks flushed with need. The way your fingers wander. I have imagined putting words to you, as canvas, but what I really want is to write you. The way you taste to me. The way you sound. I can conjure the smell of roses on Friday morning, still wet with dew, growing in the foothills of my mountains. I can give you worlds of men and women, fantastic creatures, of war and sorcery and the evil that men do. Stories of redemption and love and pain. But you elude me.

Your gift to me is, has always been, the words. But never the ones I need to write you. Take heed, little muse.

Intrinsically Yours,
-S.R.