Intoxicated to see your placeholder dimension space- the purple black star hole- melt into the field of light blue daisies fated to grow into vines, a river, a forest, a mountain…I ache. A cold me is anticipating, wanting to be a ladder for you to climb or a cluster of feathers on your wing.
If asked to name you by color and sight, I can give no answer. I see a mortal spectrum, each chroma and shade fueling a need for the years until your arrival to mach-time and to halt mid-flight when you’re here so I may sprinkle sea salt by the handful on what wounds we cast upon each other.
From all myself and all my potential, I vow to the air to be a tailwind for you: from leg learning to football to reversions to partners, from gods to sex to infection, from twelve steps to feasting to a thousand sundowns, whatever luster I can bleed will be purged from me and transfused to you and the gleam you own, already ablaze and dazzling.
I love you, son. Take care until you get here.