Perhaps I would marry a poet. His words would wrap and twist and engulf me. Perhaps we would find love between the letters. He would call me "Minx" and I would call him "Lover." When the sun went down and it was too dark to read, we would speak in hushed tones, whispering such lines to enthrall one another. The sound of his speech would be like a warm touch, cradling my chin or cupping my jaw. No boundaries need be crossed and still my heart would soar. Out bodies need not touch save the caressing of hands as we exchange love notes.
"Would I have the words to describe our love", his letters would begin. "Would I have the heart to read them", I would reply. We would know each other on paper, always craving another line, another word, a single uttering of a syllable. "Write your pen once more, dear lover", I would cry. "I cannot, dear Minx, for the pages are not big enough for my words", he would lament. Ever on would the battle continue. Each selection of words worthy to put on paper would enrichen and revive. Not for a touch, would I crave, but mere words to stimulate my heart.
"Kiss me", I would beg him and he would write me a note. With hands covered in ink, he would paint me a new world of love. "I cannot give you everything in life", he would confess, "But should these pages suffice, I will give you all you desire in love". And when there was no more paper and our pens ran dry, we would turn to each other and find passion in our touch. All the years imagining his touch would pale in comparison to his lips on mine. Like a bird in flight, we would explore a world unknown. Lost more in thought than touch, our true poetic selves would reveal themselves.
In the time following, we would try to depict what we felt. Each time, we would fail. Each time, engulfed by love, we would collide and fall into the most poetic of words, not capable of being described. To think in words in one thing, but when we touched, no language could describe the poetry we felt.
