womb.

I burn.
The loving eyes of a smaller me is what I yearn for.
Fragile hands, sounds.
Seasons mean growth, and change. I have anticipated such movement,
and in these moments, I can only push for self-improvement.
But there is driving force to plan, to nest.
I often disregard the rest. But why? And how can I stop now?
There is a flickering bulb, I admit. 
My understanding is that I must wait patiently, relentlessly rubbing these small sticks together, as I create sporadic sparks that have yet to make a flame grow. 
Keeping my eyes closed until feeling that new warmth across my face has made me restless.
I prepare for sharing myself, with what feels to be a huge, flashing, pink-to-blue-to pink neon vacancy sign,
As flickers of light and love dance in my void.




When I welcome you, it will be with grace and readiness. My fire for you will light the sky. There will be no words with our first encounter, solely tears of wonder. And your skin on mine will create a bond that this World has yet to know. To even fathom this idea, is so astounding, so beautiful that, I am unable to put my graciousness for it into words. 


Until the day that I can call you mine, I will learn from, live, and love this burn.