Light rushes through into form, these pieces in my hands. What is conceived is born. I blow and blow. Words exchanged twine us into place, woven together again and again for every pulling apart. What is born takes up space, creates eddies, moans and harmonies.
You are all fire and spit, spoiling for clash, honoring the fight that made you what you are, turning the sharp edge over and again in your mouth, honing.
Burn clean and hot my love. I will be your lamp glass and the hand that raises you in the dark.