You’re the sandbag on my hot-air balloon, weighing me down. Keeping me.
Someday you may crush me.
You’re what I’m not, and you want what I am.
But right now I’m becoming, and I want to stay light. I want to sense you, to feel you. I want to touch you and be burned by your skin. That imprint should redden my hands long after you’re out of my mind. Your salty-sweet-bitter taste should linger on my tongue until you become usual to me, until you are pretzels, ice cream, a salad on a summer night. Your breath should remain hot on my neck until you are a scarf in winter.
I want to see you with my own eyes and know that you are real – see you looming over me, see the sun shining through your hair, see your dark shadow cast on the ground, see your eyes tearing me open. Please show me what I don’t already know. Let me learn from you, with my eyes and my hands. Show me passion’s exterior and trust that I will create its interior for you.
I will return to the earth filled with knowledge, bearing all the signs of you.