for each of thy moments

بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

writers gotta write, even if the ink in my veins, stays shuttered from sight, so i can't tell how she fares, often dimmer the light, no blade to slice the surface, life has its own ways, to call forth that which drips, no need an invitation for pain, even as longing and absence, interchangeable as water and vapor, evaporating the meaning from depth restricted to the bone or musculature. at least i can pray her smiles last, returning often enough to bring solace like rain on days pleasantly downcast, misty, not reminders of sadness but softeners of skin, taking away need for lotion on days such as this. maybe if i could invent a link to her chest cavity and monitor in sync with mine every pulse of her organ to tell where and how the blood traveled faster, hopefully in delight rather than stresses adding weight to ventricles looking for exits, outlets necessary for relief offered eternally if just for now intermittent it seems. i hope in each and every of your silences, there's nothing missing or divergent, wish i could lay with my bare hands the stones of your road, so there's no quicksand or anything amiss when you walk for a stroll, echoes of your feet i'll always hear, imprints on memory, as evidence of places you'd lived and breathed, so in each footstep i can follow, keeping steady the path and she who dreams.