When your hands I desire better than desire, finally wring again, feeling emptied-out from the over-fullness of simply having to hold their only other hands; when your heart, my heart too my love, hollowed by aching owed you through ages, finally softening, sinks again in longing sickness; when the transparence of temporary presence, finally thins to a paleness you can no longer touch, or be touched by; when the distance between us pulls you through it, brings you back to belief, and feels for you that no time or distance has ever aged our intensity… May I be so uniformly fine, that you’d also be allowed to know a refusal’s own time.
Loving you like an aim higher than love, will be my secret joy against them all my girl.
