want.

To open my windows and doors, 

It is with you. 

To allow in the light. 

To be seen. 

by you.

I want to show you everything in my house. 

To guide your hand over my memories. 

with my hands. 

I want to cloak you in warm blankets,

of love. 

with my arms around. small as they are but sturdy and strong. 

I want to sit you at my table. 

To nourish and care for you, 

For us to feel our deepest joy. 

and heal our deepest pains.

I want to sit quietly in the dark corners, 

and acknowledge the ghosts so they might finally find peace. 

I want to find a soft place to lay down, 

to find rapture in enclosing your skin with mine. 

To show you all of the corners where the little things happen. 

And, 

To push back the tables and chairs 

and allow space for big things to happen.

Ripe.

A spark flies forth.

Tiny.

But very bright.

An apple ripens.

Red streaks, chasing green.

Sweet -

Chasing sour.

Up and around.

Its curves.

Swelling.

With readiness.

Its crunch sharpens.

Its sweetness heightens.

It's juice more tangy by the day.

The sun brushes warm rays upon to its skin.

Just ripe enough.

Just fine enough.

Just smooth enough.

To eat.

Perfect for a bite.

Marks from the teeth.

As the flesh collapses   -  into desire on the tongue.

Saliva spills..

Rushing forth.

Yes.

Another bite.

Insatiable.

Wanting.

More.

Le Reve

Searching.

Finding small pieces everywhere.

In everyone I come to know.

Tripping over reminders.

So that i don't forget;

a dog ear or a scrawled note, a photograph.

A laugh, a cry or a word.

Sometimes sharp.

Pain,

that I remember.

Sometimes sweet.

Joy,

that I also remember.

Sometimes bizarre.

A dream,

that I can't quite remember.

A model on a hill, bereft of trees with only drying barley grass

At dusk,

in the wind,

caught in the fading light.

A gang of hundreds of tiny children on motor bikes,

wearing colourful clothes, speed by us.

Kicking up dust and seeds.

The air moves faster,

and I can't find my camera.

And I'm too far away to be heard.

The wind becomes impatient.

My voice gets lost.

I shout out.

I panic.

I want a capture because,

all i can think is how french you look to me.

And how utterly beautiful.

As in,

breath taking.

It's a surprise to me.

For in my mind's eye I see not a sister,

as expected.

But,

a

stunning

woman.

One I have never seen before.

A girl from another time and place.

One who doesn't belong to me.

Anymore.

Or to the world or to anyone else.

By now I realise that I'm shouting,

she can't hear me,

and I cant find it.

That thing.

That thing I've been looking for.

That thing I need so desperately.

That thing i need to make her beautiful.

To light paint her.

Into existence.

Into life.

Into love.

Into sharing.

Into being.

Into becoming the thing that never will be.

That is now only in my deepest of dreams.

In the depths of my memory.
In our imagination.

Threaded throughout, and within.

Where my voice will not reach.

Where my camera can not reach.

A dream,

to catch the light.

So that I can just look at her for a little while longer.

....Or forever.

A dream,

to capture all the little pieces, that the years have scattered around,

for me to find.

As I go.