Love & Sweet Waters
In a world where I would have more time for my hydrangeas; where my mind didn’t always spin so far out of control. In a world where I could wake up every morning next to her, sunlight flipping through the pale yellow curtains. Where we could own a house together: a villa in the south of Italy or of Spain or somewhere in suburbia — a place that knew our names and respected our softness. Getting up early to put the bread in the oven, feed the chickens, collect the honey, go for a run, wash outside in the cool morning air, and fold myself back under the warm cream blanket and in between her brown limbs. Somewhere I can kiss her in the morning while making her breakfast and where I can kiss her outside in the middle of a gravel track, in the middle of the village centre. We don’t have to be ashamed.
The fresh bread sits hot on the table; summer stone fruit hangs lush and ripe on the trees in our orchard. We’re holding hands, picking them together, making jam to sell, to lick off our fingers, to spread on our bread. This is a world where our hydrangeas never die because in this world we never forget to water them. Every patch of dirt a different acidity and all our hydrangeas are different hues: the blue of my eyes on her body, the pink of her lips at midnight — stained with wine, the purple of the sprig of lavender I tuck behind her ear before it loses itself in the bubbly ocean of her hair.
We pick figs for our neighbours and use the ones close to rotting as the stickiest, sweetest lube. I love her with her fingers in my mouth and I love her when she’s pulling up the weeds. In a world where her voice with mine is the most tender sound of heaven. We are safe and we are soft. In a world where our cathedral is the grove of trees behind our house and our god is of the earth and of the sky and our saints are holy and caring, we are not objects of sin and our love is not a lie nor blasphemous,
We are pure.
We are loved.
We are light.