For she who comes from the sea

It is a cliche, and I wish I knew how to say it better but I don’t.

I love how you write.

Words on a page become pictures. The word ‘bird’ turns into a feathered creature swooping down into the word ‘river’, which now flows intrepidly, confidently into some unseen turn into the trees. I could see the hummingbird and then the wasp. And before I had the chance to marvel at how serendipitous this meeting was, I saw your children-whom I imagine are beautiful, of course-children usually are, no?

This is what I mean. When I write, I describe. When you write, things transform. And so I want to know what it is to write with you. I think it will be like dancing, but with words. Letters; consonants and vowels prancing across the floor of a white sheet. Punctuations cutting in, asking for the last dance.

You’ll see. We will dance, you and I.