A filament of light garnishes the edge of her portrait. She’s fair skinned, with a necklace that sits right on the mantle of her neck’s resting place. Beads of words dangle from my lips- they’re like amino acids forming in a polypeptide chain. They string together to form compliments and they’re stored in a word bank that deposits continually because she makes me richer. She’s the cream of the crop surfaced to make me gravitate towards God’s good will.
I can’t think of a poem that will respect her in the space in between lines; she overcomes the rules of writing and the soul perceives her to be the one. When the soul is filling in the space of innate wonder, it becomes a reality that even the clock ticks nervously like a radio host clearing his throat one last time before going “On Air”.
We dialogue, but I don’t know where her nearest flower shop is or where she’s found her favorite restaurant. I can only ask questions and probe into the pollen of a new season with a girl that hasn’t made me feel the way she has. And the bee in me is buzzing to be next to her.
I circulate thoughts of lust, elevating a fleshly desire for marriage and family. God is faithful to introduce a buffer between my acidic ploy and instead gifts me with His presence so that I can find a heavenly balance to be the scale on which my hopes and dreams lie. So Jesus, I want you more romantically than the space between my skull thinks is possible.
And in celebration of your daughter, I pray for her as my sister in Christ. I pray that my loss of sleep isn’t a form of idolatry but a space to sand the rough edges of a boyfriend who knows he can do better. I celebrate her asking you to remove any of my bitterness that misrepresents who she is to you. The night takes way the last of the embers and the dew of the morning reasons to bring the sun upon its freshness.
Thank you for these past couple of months.