hopes above water

I want a man whose words are scrambled newsprint, whose strands of hair release my fingertips into tingling bliss from which recognition spouts. I want a free-roaming wild lover, deep as cathedral liturgy--as dark only as the ring that creeps at the halo of my moon. Swaying when he feels distant as a reminder of those smokey roots he leads me through. I want him to need me. I want to be his muse, his dreamer, his crystallized frenzy, his love's legacy. His laughter will be on parchment that he sends to me across ship-deserted seas in a stained-glass corked bottle. His soul and his skin will be one harmony--rich and real and designed and soothing and whispering. He will be the type of adventure found in library corners after hours, and resting on renegade rooftops. Speech like a mystery swan of ancient inscriptions, searching me out like sun strips in a graveyard. His heart would move as purposed and memorizing as a pen against a static screen--a hidden, secret story behind each, like sundials. Nothing in him will be subdued; his passions will be original and ringing and smashing into the unbending pallor of all that normality seeks to possess. He will awaken inside of me a symphony of soil and stars and seas and sky. We will be creativity, a thirst like one foot in the sand and one in the tide, a poignancy of lotus at the lips of a gypsy.