Slow Boil (Blissful Descent)

Uncharted journeys —

slumbering in dreams of embarkment

fill these veins so we

don’t need to be

grounded.

They spin stories sweetened with Dutch cocoa,

and French-press coffee talk

over oven-fresh macaroons,

and open-air evening dinners

under Venetian sunsets made perfect

over pizza margherita and powdered cannolis.

We enclose miles through walking,

and chart new pathways over

endless hours talking

amidst gentle winds of lemon merengue

and cotton candy marmalade skies.

We will know each other through mind and soul,

a passport to territory terrifying and new,

but something that seems safe and steady.

We are all nervous hands,

sweat-kissed skin,

and clumsy lips —

but these pages in time become

more than momentary bliss.

And I think about falling.

And I hope I am falling.

And in my dreams I think,

even if he does not trip himself over me

on these cobblestone streets

beneath Prometheus-blessed lantern lights,

I think about how this feeling of falling

is everything —

Especially when this crash landing

pulls it’s way into home

over someone like you.