I had an epiphany today, in the morning hues, realizing that everything I do, I do for you.

On the surface, there are things you see, threads that make you confused, who is she really?

I am rhythm and blues. Hedonic, it is true, the thread that climbs, shatters and breaks, it’s easy to see it come through.

I thought they were lovers, perhaps even you, they are my pursuits, of all natures, the real, the fissures, the fakers, makers, squishy heart takers, I’ve adored each of you.

My eyes are open, childlike and wide, waiting for the surprise, of a lifetime, of passion met, humanity no longer upset, of blood that rushes through, flows like gushing rivers, rests like ocean floors, sunlight touching darkness like the skin of Moors, with deeper pores.

Deeper pours…

I consistently yearn for more. It makes my heart uproar, the lioness at the back and front door, impassioned pleas to end the tumult, to turn chaos into the core. Yet, always it is the encore, the end that is the beginning, the hope of achieving the blessings born in those who keep believing, who conceive of increase, of maximum degrees.

I thought of you today, the people I’ve loved, of love un-conformed, of loose ends and half-hearted spins, of never and all, meaningless symbols that easily dissolve.

I thought of seven-year old me, who had everything, who wanted nothing more, but one thing, the freedom of full capacity, love without chastity, letters worn not torn.

This note applies to people and things, hopes, wishes and dreams that seem to continue, but there are so many ends.

Many trends…

I hold on like fins, keep swimming, flapping, moving, hands clapping for some reward, for some finale, but continuous, pushing forward into more, for an understanding, an empathy with peace. Then the bell rings and pieces of me cease. Every experience I’ve had, every truth, every vision, prayer, commitment, I’ve done it for you. I need you to come through.

Come soon…

The journey keeps burning, hot with desire, consumption and reconstruction. If only I could live, not be a sieve, separating feelings into pulp, juiced, but never drunk. Muses are supposed to give. The downs are what life is, what fuels the fire of all I give. I write this to ask for gentleness, for tenderness when I’m withering, for support and even more, for Galilee, where miracles are explored, for children named Cana, where liquid is wine and loving is divine, where brides and grooms feast on minds, where art is the sublime creation of all time.

A letter to my muse. Yes, LOVE, it’s you.