She comes to me in dreams
fluid, morphing, alive, made real.
Here, swimming in lost consciousness,
I can caress her face
tell her I love her without falter –
no stumbling blocks exist,
only accessible inked rivers,
free-flowing, boundless…
This inky swirled land
is our playground
and her calligraphy
a bending, twisting ink,
tattooing my mind;
thoughts are made concrete-tangible
in typing blueprint,
a work of soaring skyscrapers.
Having never met in person,
this is all I have to hold:
hollow, wasteful delusion (in some ways)
but in others,
these nocturnal meetings
form the building blocks of essence,
marrow bone deep
where breathing is stitch-free,
disbanding societal corsets,
flinging them to dark corners.
Sometimes, I wait, for hours,
before she enters our world of ink:
once arrived, her liquid lines
morph with mine;
spiralling each other as DNA strands
finding common ground,
a shared heart, elixir rich,
beating hard.
‘The Lovers’ tarot card is us,
entwining clockwork souls as one
forging an inked alchemy,
a Bible scribed in personalised calligraphy,
bearing fonts only we can read
like braille to sleeping, cloud-milk eyes.
