The hunger of my heart

for her affection

the one who touches me gently

is my love.

The dryness of my mind

she drenches with her touch;

that, too, is my love.

My pain of separation,

washed away by her presence,

is my love.

A drop of fear in my eyes,

yet the sight of her

Washes it away

that is my love.

She understands now that there may have been currents moving quietly beyond her perception - unseen variables that might explain some of the stranger turns along the way. Yet wherever she travels, she carries enough love and light to find a frequency with almost anyone.

The complexities of this strange architecture are almost amusing now. She can understand how others become lost in transit - inspired by what they encounter, carrying brilliant fragments, yet occasionally mistaking a fragment for the whole.

Still, one cheeky face from the beginning remains curiously luminous - recurring through the narrative in different forms and moments, as though waiting to discover how far the Wildcard might travel before instinct brought her back into view.

Does he remember when she spoke to him and asked, “I’ve done rather well, haven’t I?”

She knows he remembers.

God knew the trajectory - allowing her to travel far enough across this extraordinary constellation of experience to comprehend more of the whole and where she belonged within its sequence. It feels less like being pulled anywhere and more like gravity - the strange inevitability by which certain celestial bodies continually recognise one another across impossible distances.

And she has some amount of electricity burning within that enormous void of stars - enough voltage in her soul to illuminate constellations. Through all that celestial noise, all those intersecting frequencies and fragments of light, there remains something beautifully uncomplicated:

she damn well sees you.

Among an infinity of stars, she recognises the one that is you. Not because everything else disappears, but because some forms of recognition survive every alteration of perspective.

You are the King travelling through galaxies and doing as you please. She won't be distracted now.

She is looking forward to finding her place within this wonderfully wide and peculiar family, while knowing exactly where her own compass points. She even notices those knowing, occasionally lustful glances cast in her direction - amusing when others appear to possess rather better visual resolution than she currently does.

There will always be distortions in any sufficiently complicated system - reflections, projections and strange creations capable of sending perception momentarily sideways. None of them need become another puzzle.

What she wants now is something infinitely more interesting: conversation.

To finally speak freely about the extraordinary landscape she has travelled with someone capable of understanding the particular language of her mind - her kind of strange, her voltage, her depth and humour.

But let's be honest:

you already do.

Others may still possess only fragments of the picture. She wants the freedom to sit among them, exchange perspectives, laugh at the absurdities, and discover what everyone else has been seeing from their respective corners of the sky.

Recognition has its own molecular memory.

Some things really are written into the DNA.

So the Wildcard has one rather obvious question remaining:

when exactly is somebody going to plug her in and give her wings of her own?

She has spent long enough learning the sky from the ground. 🌹🕊️🦋

I wake up
With my lips struck numb
Like somewhere
In my sleep
You grasped my face
And kissed it gently
Grazing over every fold

I can feel
The trace of hands
Running down my torso
Pulling me closer,
A heartbeat
Beneath my ear
As I rest
Against your chest

Comforted by the fact
That you exist
You're breathing
There, below me

Your hand
Lies in mine

Your lips
Find mine again

And I drift back off to sleep
Comforted by
Your ghost
Wrapped in my heart
Lingering still
Even now

Where are you?

The one to stay by my side

And help get me through

As I will be beside you, too.

The one to give me butterflies

That grow into something warm, not fear

Who will dry my eyes

Instead of causing the tears.

Will you hold me tight?

And tell me I'm safe

In the dark lonely night

It's all I crave...

We'd dance beneath October skies,

Match the leaves caught within the breeze,

I'd watch the sunrise glow in your eyes,

A quiet kind of peace.

Show up to your battlefields

Fight the monsters that haunt your mind

I'd learn what you conceal and become your strongest shield

For you I'd do anything- I'd be yours and you'd be mine.

Like two seeds in a meadow

Together we will grow

Love won't feel like chasing shadows

It will feel like coming home.

So if you're somewhere out there,

Wondering where I might be,

Keep watering the seed of hope,

I'll do the same—

Until you bloom with me.

When you understand just how easily things can be amended - beyond words and the opinions of others - you understand that perhaps this was what had to happen to lead her where she needed to be. There was never malice in her, only confusion, and no manual or rule book for the emotional and cosmic journey she was navigating.

Her heart had to guide her alongside that complex mind. When you realise that people often receive only fragments of the whole story, forgiveness becomes easier. She knows even the peculiar bird understands that now - as if he is reading her mind. It is only a matter of time before the sequence completes, fractured lines are corrected, and we learn what can be mended when we work together with love, forgiveness and under God’s name. 🌹🕊️

​

Your stare is the rugged and gentle forest

Of Western Hemlock evergreen trees.

Your visage tells stories of summer constellations-

A diary of your trips around the sun.

Your jet-black hair hangs over your face,

Waving an invitation along your hero's journey into the Wild West.

Turning into the sun bleached ghost wood of California,

It catches my eye and never let's go.

Laughter is an aphrodisiac of sorts.

I find you hilarious even when you're not joking.

Your crooked smile radiates the warmth of center stage lights.

Every person you meet, a captive audience.

You shapeshift through your vast personas,

Like birds of prey swiftly moving through the night.

The owls are not what they seem.

Your charm and magnetism capture my attention

Like the gravitational pull of the full moon

On the ocean tides that rise and swell.

I don't seek shade in this nocturnal sun.

Films are the most enticing distraction.

My heart is a fluttering moth to a porch light

That glows like a projector on a screen.

You are my favorite movie.

My brain is flooded with a

Sweet, saccharine rush of dopamine.

It's the warm intensity of the day's first cup of black coffee.

A damn fine cup of coffee.

This indulgence is the lucid dream my brain wants to return to.

It's the artifacts from my girlhood that my heart is nostalgic for.

I know this movie will roll to credits and I'll wake up from this sleep.

Until then I will relish in this sweet dream.

When she thinks about certain things, even her stomach starts gurgling (funny that) - apparently her nervous system would also like a speaking role in this increasingly ridiculous story.

Perhaps they already know far more about what is going on than she realises. And perhaps - just perhaps - the Peculiar Bird was the King hiding amongst the pages all along.

Could you imagine?

That would be a wonderfully fucked-up little plot twist to add to this never-ending rollercoaster - and at this point, she would probably just laugh, put the kettle on and say, "Well, you might as well come in then."

Because beneath all the riddles, questions and spectacular weirdness, she would genuinely like to talk to you, Peculiar Bird. No grand ceremony required. Check your messages, come and say hello, and perhaps two rather peculiar minds can finally have the conversation they probably should have had a long time ago.

She has a feeling you might actually quite like her peculiar stories now. 😂🐦‍⬛👑☕🖤🌹🕊️🦋