I can see myself in an old country cottage that new life has been brought to. The white-washed stone walls in the brisk countryside spring. The first greens on the hedgerows, visible through a small window bejeweled with an emblem of stained glass the glimmers ethereally in the sun of the early morning. The embers of the fire grow hot still, as I warm my toes and cradle a mug of coffee in my hands, red knuckles still stiff from sleep. The rug on the dark wooden floor, deep reds and greens and golds illuminated by the consistent geometric patterns of an anonymous merchant met within a maze of Moroccan side-streets, feels familiar and grounding underfoot. The world has not yet awoken; all there is, is me within my space. My eyes fall closed, as my attention is brought to my breath, slow and deep, steady, reflecting my heart as it pumps my life force throughout me, through my fingertips, my toes, the top of my head. The sounds of a hound in slumber are distant yet distinct, the shallow breaths and scratches of paws on pillows while they scramble for a rabbit made of clouds that dissipates and rematerialises out of reach each time the hounds jaws manage to encapsulate it; much like the streaks of coffee clouds disappearing up one’s nostrils and reforming just in time for the next inhale.
My eyes softly open to be greeted with a familiar warm smile, occupying the worn armchair beside the fireplace, bought at an auction after seeing the glimmer in your eye when you saw it – which was obviously rather well received. Cold nosed nuzzles and exchanges of affection lift the spirit entranced by it’s own heartbeat, and I feel real once more. The daily ongoings then go on, the day littered with odd jobs and cups of tea, all the while knowing I am exactly where I am supposed to be. I watch you as you collect the vegetables we had planted months prior from the cold soil; an early spring harvest of oranges and greens and browns held within the hammock you’ve made with your apron while the cat sleeps in the basket beside the door.
And it never ceased, not for one moment, my adoration of you.
Yet there is nothing to cease.
Now I see my heart lies cold and weary, yearning for a lover that does not exist, in a home I have yet to build. I see I have work yet to do, foundations to build and bridges to cross. I must hold my love within, and allow it to warm myself as I wish to warm you; in order to build the world you deserve to belong in, I must first build within. So that I will do, my rock shall slowly form into my ashlar, rough irregular shapes shall become square edges and smooth sides, and I will become the person who deserves to know you – the person I know I already am.