author. - J.W. Bouwman
I wanted to write something real, so I held you in a paper cup, letting the wax melt slowly into soft curls that coat my lips with every sip, downing your essence, your truth, with each mouthful of the warm liquid held within.
I wanted to write something true, so I cast my wishes upon the breezes, where they were safe from others’ prying ears, and traced their journey through the tailwinds of various birds’ migrations, from warm shore to warm shore, certain they’d eventually find their way to the harbour of your collarbones.
I wanted to write you, into an existence that was closer than a here and a there, and sooner than my next heartbeat, but my fingers are fumbley, and my words can often fail. But my heart, oh my heart, it thrums and sings, calling out in all the ways it knows. And all the sounds are you, all the sounds are you…