For the beautiful strangers

Though we are yet to meet, and may never, I know, by instinct, precisely who you are. I see you, fully formed, in the blinding dazzle of sunlight. I feel you, present and textural, in the warm murmur of golden evenings. I sense your approach, rising, in the abundant promise of spring. Intoxicated, I can almost believe you are here.

Yet, I am too old not to know how unlikely this is. For we are rarely the people we dream ourselves to be, and the world has little room for the intemperance we conjure in the vale of our desire. Beauty, it appears, most often falls foul of detail; fantasy corrupted by its realisation.

My wise head knows this well, yet my heart remains fifteen. Despite everything, I still want to believe. I want you enter the room, so that I might fall at your feet. I yearn for all manner of surrender. To be overwhelmed. Redrawn in your colours. Constructed so as to include you.         

There is still space in the calm universe of my knowing for the disorder of belief. It reveals itself in the form of the light, its echoes shimmer in the shape of song. It is the unconquered territory. I stumble upon it in beauty, which, when I look, is everywhere.

I lift my eyes, and there…is it…?  

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