IV

Dearest Meadow,

I am tethered by gossamer faith in an unseen deity, only devout when my prayers are answered. Gratitude eludes me, a language I know I should remember, yet my tongue is fluent only in desire—an insatiable hunger for what could be.

I want serendipity. Luminescence. Star-crossed.

I am desperate for ephemeral moments. Soft sunlight filtering through cream cotton sheets, casting warm, golden light, leaving promises of a tangible tomorrow on our skin. Visions of a future steeped in delicate devotion consume me. I am feverish. I see snapshots of laughter spilling sepia over sleepy summer mornings, gentle morning breeze entangled in silk, veiling a balcony that blurs beyond the grasp of my mind. Buttering toast in a kitchen I haven’t lived in yet and walking hand in hand by a river that has not yet dared to ripple our names.

Consume me in tender worship. Show me quintessential romance, hidden in undiscovered connection. Burn constellations into my soul. I want you to find me. Grant me silence, the kind that is only found through divine omniscience. Secrets that I will live and die by. Sacred vows.

This is more than simple desire. I want to find you. I crave cracking the enigma, splitting the skin and coaxing out the soft summer fruit, tasting the very essence of what lies within. Bury me in the labyrinth. Shed the boundaries of flesh and bone. Let me trace the lines of your soul until I could recognise them in the void that exists between celestial galaxies.

Always yours,

Dorothea B