The Bloom Of Dreams

I have spent years wandering the wild edges of myself, searching for the one whose body speaks the same language of salt and skin, whose touch contemplates the hidden places within me. Each morning I rise and walk the ridge of longing, my feet blistered, my throat parched with want. The hills so dry, so dense the underbrush, that where I pushed my way the giant hush was changed to soft explosion. I have learned that desire’s not a destination but a pilgrimage of thorns and heat, a slow burning toward the moment when two souls meet and all the silence between us opens into song written just for us. I’m still walking, searching. Still believing that somewhere, in the tangled dark, she is pushing through too, aching for the same rapture, the same wet bloom of our dreams of surrender and sweet release.