A Letter to the Anonymous

A marvelous picture, painted. By you, by me, both. Colours explode, red, green, yellow, blue, into fireworks and gasoline. Boy, what wonder? Like a father to me, Mother and Fathers and Sisters and Brothers, you throw, I catch. The ball is not a ball, but a Baby, a fish, a grandfather clock.

The end justifies the means, or so they say. With each breathe it calls, entwining pale fingers until it hurts, in my hair, which you would brush and mingle with yours. I dance on the tallest spire, gasping for air. A dove, A rose, who is not a rose without a thorn. Deceptive sleep. Mouth to teeth to eye, all as sharp as the blade that runs along skin.

I Love You.