Pull me down home.

Helena, I wonder if you were flesh, what you’d be wearing. I know your hair is long coal, and I know your eyes, already, are turquoise diamond. You usually surround me with ideals. I have a hard time thinking about you sexually, not because you have no body, but because your hand moves directly through my bones and holds my heart, and your eyes stare at me like songs would. To reduce you to sex is something I can’t afford.

It’s the dawning of a raw time, Helena. I can’t tell you how important you are to me. It’s not comprehensible. I know things have to work out if I am ever going to be seated in a soft chair with my music, your solar eyes resting beneath the keys, waiting for the right feeling to trigger the right sentence, so you will awake and pull me down home.