Sunday, June 15, 2008


Sunday, June 15, 2008
My darling Pilot;

It's a lovely and quiet Sunday evening and I am sitting here, in front of my screen, listening to a song called Dreams, by a group called The Cranberries. Dreams ~ Pilot, did you know that you lurk about in my dreams? Yes, Beloved. You do. When I feel weightless with longing for you ~ that violent sort of longing that causes my heart to burn ~ I retreat to that dusky spot inside myself ... my inner soul ... and I find you there, waiting for me. Waiting for me ... and watching.

Like I watch you, my Beloved. The method and grace of your movements, the scent of your pillow, the soft texture of your hair, your gentle voice, your golden green eyes ... they have all penetrated my consciousness, imprinted themselves upon the retina of my soul. My existence in your absence feels oppressive, like a vacuum. And wanting you, like I do, Pilot, makes me feel so restless, so fickle. I live outside of my Self, searching, waiting, for my Pilot.

Pilot ~ my body and beloved, my pain and my passion, my mystery and master ~ I yearn for you. It's wonderful. And it hurts. I long to feel near enough to you to taste the flavour of your pulse. And then, darling, in the still of the night, I will ask you if you can feel my thoughts on your skin. Can you, Pilot? Feel them ~ light as the seed cases from dandelions, and moist as only a tongue could feel.


Leah said...

i agree, creativity is largely a spiritual practice!