Foxes yell the future into the silence of a starless night,

and I listen,

with trembling lips, so suggestible to your own.

The honey flows from the sky,

like acid rain,

destroying the old earth,

so something new can flower and bloom where my past used to pasture.

I can feel your fingertips on my right wrist,

like you are urging me to write a story,

where two princesses journey across ancient lands,

landing in each other’s laps.

I am Writing, mi amor,

I am writing.