roseblush, maybe

I like to think of it this way. This is the time I have with You. I'm back in my spot, in the kitchen. The combined kitchen-living room. At the table we turned sideways to put in the elevator. Facing the window where living things sit, breathing, watching. This is my time with You.

It's always later. Usually past midnight. Tonight it's lighting a candle, vaguely vanilla. My fourth cup of tea today. My hand on the wall that separates where I sit from Naomi's room. Thea's room.

It crosses my mind that you know every single angle and piece of furniture in this space. Intimately. I let out the sails of my heart, here I am, here You are, the music reminds. How silly of me to ask You to be here. But I feel a call to ask anyway.

I feel a call when I enter the room, back from seeking, searching, asking for something I don't need. Something I don't want. Being disappointed. Being reminded. I'm done pretending, I want the real thing, the music speaks. This is the time I have with You.

I want to think about it more. I want to think about living here, sketching here, dreaming here, being held here. But usually it's at the end of the day, when the hours melt into each other. I know it will be late before I get to bed. You're the only thing that matters, the music says. Do I believe that? The only thing? I know it is true.

True, to be true. I want to be true. I want to be authentic--not to write a blog post, not to post a photograph, not for the art. For You alone. It's expanding, the time I think about You. Clearing my schedule to the point of being convinced that I must be forgetting something. A vacation, maybe. An oasis, definitely.

I painted pink today. Pink salt, rose hibiscus tea, carnations. It felt pink. You and I feel pink right now. Pretty, I know I've said. Roseblush, maybe? Falling in love.

This is my time with You, but I want it to be more. You have eternity with me. You watch me as I watch my artistic subjects. I know You do, You see me. Want me. Seek me. I want to do the same. You watch me forget all the things I've promised. Like my attention. You watch me be distracted.

Distracted. Over and over again. Take it away. Melt it away, into a big puddle of wax. Unscented. Let hunger fill the room, the music calls. Let hunger fill the room. I want to starve off the distractions.

So here I am again, late. Writing and posting, wondering if I'm obsessed with my own writing or enamored with You. Praying and praying it's the second. Listening and hoping it's something so much more than I know how to receive. A mystery, like poetry is.

I keep ending my prayers with be my everything. And I forget minutes later, looking around. Looking at myself, listening to the wind and the world. What does everything look like? You're already in my clothes, my colors, my music. Or maybe that reads, Your clothes, Your colors, Your music.

Our affection, our devotion, poured out on the feet of Jesus, the song insists. Will I? I pour water into my cup, over my tea satchet. A metaphor, I say, laugh. I feel as if I'm poetrying myself in circles, but I understand it. You understand it.

Turn me into something beautiful. The mess of curls in my brain fabric. The way my body stands, how I put rings on my fingers, all of it. Identity. I want it to burn like a candle, spread like sweet wild orange tea, bloom long like a carnation. Seasoned with You like himalayan pink salt.

Jesus Christ, Savior of my life, I can't help falling in love with You, the music promises. I think so. I've been talking and waiting and wanting but not really trying. Not realizing until You came and lifted everything off of my shoulders, again. I think You do it everyday. But now, in this month, You took it all and put it somewhere. And gave me the time.

This is my time with You. I pray it is more. I pray it transcends into my whole life. I am afraid this love will winter before the month is out, as I've seen it go before. Keep me here. Stayed on You, because You will never leave.

My heart is an open space, for You to come and have Your way, the music echoes. I am open, now. Open open open. Come and move, and live. Beyond this spot at my table. Your table. Beyond this month, year, season, college, state. Beyond this moment. I want to wake up tomorrow and wonder what You're saying, thinking. Wonder what You're doing.

All I want is you, the music is saying.

Pull me in closer?

Greta