Words, written to Magdelana, muse, goddess, and dreamt bedfellow.
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What a divine gift it would be to craft thresholds at will; carve doorways out of sky, arches out of stone. Words are the penknife of creation, scratching at the surface of reality.
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My dear D’jaevle, for you I will break my silence. So much of life is lived purely for the frailty of the moment, the soft liberation of beauty. Your tendency is to evoke this while evicting the mundane. You pierce my surface exposing colours as ephemeral as the rainbow. Red is the colour of thresholds and the keeper of time, when blood flows a boundary is violated. The moon will be rendered invisible tonight as the Lunar Eclipse reaches totality. I’m moonbathing, waiting for the cool light to flush with the shades of passion. It’s a beautiful moment, one you could slice through with ease.