“The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere,
they’re in each other all along.¨ ~ Rumi

 
 

Everything I do is leading me to you.

I hope that our meeting is illuminated by wisdom’s gentle candlelight, its precise timing and patient causes unveiled in that rosy lustre of kindred spirits beholding each other. There will be lessons shared and discoveries revealed. Passions subdued in my silent interiority take shape in your gleam, now summoned by a rattling at the heart-door.

Cherished memories will fall from your fingers and into my palms in this sacred space of flame and serendipity.

I hope that every heartache reconciles itself in that light, I hope that every loss serves it purpose. I hope that your eyes light up with longing and that mine are gentle enough to invite you in.

I hope that I captivate you, that I am all things radiant and bright, that my light clarifies yours.

I hope that you are a man well-acquainted with love and still eager to explore its capacities. I hope that your heart thirsts to conquer the way mine flutters to be won. I hope that your adventures and victories have left you yearning for a more wild territory, and I hope that you are strong enough to journey into mine.

Can you bear the collision of my life into yours?

I hope that you trust in my strength when I lose myself in your wonder and ache over how alive you feel in my hands, my lungs, my bones. I hope that you believe in my ability to bear the pain and awe because it was You and all your might that chose me as your equal.

I hope that I incite your power to move.

Make me meek; make me all things tame and mild so I can feel what it is to be claimed by you.

Make me yours.

And mostly I hope that when I have surrendered everything, whispered my secrets, my pleasures, my tragedies, that my love will be enough to sustain you in the darker moments, when the candlelight flickers and we forget; that you can close your eyes and still find me in your chest, plucking that sweet harp-string of Self, making music to herald our journey into slumber, where we can dream of each other again in the hazy sleep of forgetting.

 

 

 

 

 

Author: Sarah LaFleur

Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: Courtesy of Author