Our Garden

My inner obsessions with your imaginative way of existing is seducing me…reproducing an infallible experience that seems imprecise but that is the very spirit of your giving…and that’s why I love your patchwork. It is perfect in its emotion…balanced, real and diverse.

In my adoration, my mouth waters for tastes of you. Searching for that ever-so familiar vibration…blend-scented touches that you occasionally open yourself to. You pulled back the blinds on your window so I could look in…and I feel so inspired. Your creativity reaches me even when the reception isn’t clear or the messages not intended for me.

I’ve been blessed with god’s eyes to see-- you in ways that are alien to you, but have become natural to me. That’s how I can explain those blind pieces-- those fine pieces-- those portions of the high priestess ‘to be,’ in living color and stained glass. You have breathed into me another side of life that was violently absent. Even in your caption, you read like a prayer. And I absorb those captioned clouds as they pass by. Those puffy and beautiful clouds that remind us of marshmallows, cotton candy and powdered sugar…everything indulgent and delightful, but full of sincerity because they have the potential to rain. I’ve seen the storms produced in pre and post-sweet tooth to find elements of your artistry encrypted in water. Sobering and rescuing in its presentation…I still create time to fondle your craftswomanship. Arousing the moment and saying fuck atonement because this time there were no mistakes made… only cookie-flaked songs played --that deliver salvation…all of this in one lady.

Because of this, I have a gift to give. Here are two flowers for you…put them next to where you sleep. Pretend one is my heart…the other my mind. I blossomed to speak to you…remind you of your godessiness, of your promises-- to yourself, of your ability to touch others and feel in challenging ways…hear my petals beat and my stamen speak as your imagination leaks into to my being, erasing that ceiling of limitation…replacing it with the guarantee of life abundantly… balancing the grit and sensuality… uncovering the rewards of an ancestral, romantic scene and reliving that. Poor and pocketless we enjoy the wealth of our affection…its inconsistency…its intensity…its confusingly-natured harmony…its lessons and religious following.

We are a cult classic… a personal habit that became a community practice…we are what it looks like to have romantic integrity and internal access. This is our contribution, our ode to the life process. Illustrating to those near and dear---abroad and don’t give a fuck about—how exquisite and obnoxious…difficult and problemless lovers can be. Now they can’t say they don’t know. Now we can’t say that we don’t know. We just can continue to embrace/nurture what we can…and grow…water the garden.