I am searching for words, such words that would be the ark of my self. I wish to plant within consonants and syllables that which is the object of my desire, so as to bloom outwards, so that words become the soil for my emotion. My words will be pollen, drifting along by the current of my restlessness. They must be more than figures; homes to what I yearn to say with windows large enough for you to peek inside. They will be blood vessels, each a letter flowing in my veins so if I were to bleed out would spill a pool of words, and floating on the surface, like prophetic alphabet soup, they will spell out my love for you.
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