Without your warmth the world contorted. My own shadow departed where no light could bring it back to my skin, that careful edge where you end and I begin.
I am ready, wanting the whole of you: your anger and sadness and fear, your grace. The steadfast will so burdened by bad habits, undoing your better intentions when the quiet gnaws too near and the season chokes you. Your darting wit, your confidence and your sudden sinking self doubts.
I am ready, wanting the whole of you: your pointed determination and your release from expectations upon changing course. The stirring ambition alongside patience which tempers and transforms like a forge. Your hospitable compassion and territorial, defensive scrutiny, too. Your joy at giving, your admiration of others.
I am ready, wanting the whole of you: your mistakes and your reform, your quiet hours that stretch into day-dreaming, spent running through books and virtual architecture to occupy a restless mind before the warmth of bed and dull of morning.
I am ready, wanting the whole of you: The unbridled fire, spontaneous or schemed that pulls the richest fantasies up from my mind as though meticulously dredging the depths of an unknowably vast sea for wrecked wealth, for stories. We bask in adrenaline-steeped affairs poets wish for.
There is nothing left to build with but time, and we,
we survived - storm battered and capsized.