I wish that I could take and hold you in my hand, curl you up within my palm. I would, if possible, take and sew you then into my pocket, careful stitches placed in neat rows, that I could take you with me wherever I went. A reassuring lump resting there against my breast, you would sound like my heartbeat and smell like home and comfort. And at night I would rest my head upon you and listen to your dreams.
Or if you were a nectarine growing on that branch which reaches out over the road, I would pass by every day to see you as you are. I would, if possible, stroke your flesh with deft fingers, feeling how taut and ready you’d become until at last stretching forth my hand and plucking you down. I would rub you on my cheek and inhale your scent before taking my first bite, your sticky sweet juices running down my chin.
Instead you are my quill. Day and night I lift you in my hand and dip you into my inkwell (or is it my heart?) Scratching out flowing lines across the parchment, dipping your nib into my inky depths again and again. Loops and lines spilling forth, drops and splatters. Until I’m not sure if it’s really ink or blood, for you placed it there.
Yes, my love. You are my heart. You are my sustenance. You are my reason.
©️tara caribou – 2018