Are you waiting for me to say
that all of my stones are made of
silk sewn Kanji?
The 20,000 symbols that you want to read in me are in the dictionary of a long history of places I cannot always recall by shape or brush stroke.
you have that complex design for patience and pain and love in your own sewn silk letter form and i read you with a persistence.
We are in the middle of an ancient language. A thread pulling our mouths open and close together in a center
sliding through all of our points of contact and weaving through us a pattern that we can only discern
by laying still and listening to the other breathe.
In the lamp light I painted your jaw line with my finger tip and wrote your name with a practiced brush on the pulse of my wrist
and I wonder if you felt that stone roll away from me and return as a new word like hope.