Lovers After Time Apart

Lover, I am doubled in my awareness of you, all you are, and my existence in myself.

To meet you is not difficult; to know your strength, to sense your vulnerability, to let both be and then, when allowed, to cherish and encourage them on and open.  When I meet you at the airport, I will wear a long, white summer dress.  My hair will be pulled out of my eyes, braided maybe, just the front tendrils, with the rest hanging loosely around my neck.  You've said twice how much you like it.  You like soft, you like pretty and shiny.  You like feminine; you like tender and vulnerable.  You do know yourself, my darling.

When I meet you at the airport I will be there early.  I will park, and I will bring a book with my notebook in order to read of flow and fantasy and metaphor and visual poetry, and in order to write again my voice into my consciousness, to bring my core again up out of its shadowy boxes and into the light of my mind and full heart.  And my heart will be full of myself. You will then have a place in it.

Without my novel and my notebook, you are not with me, in me, you are not moving inside my blood and body, you cannot exist for me.  You can only exist outside of me, still seen, very seen, perhaps better seen even than in my mixture of you inside me, but not mine.  Only when I commit my wholeness to myself can I fit you there next to me, in my heart.

I will meet you at the airport, white and bare for you, tender and pure for you, tall and straight and strong for me, feminine and heated and powerful for me, for us.  I am both.  And I am doubled, though, only if I do not hold both in my bones and mind, and if the one doesn't precede the other.