Word Portrait of My Beloved

You hold the merits of hurrying up And slowing down at your own pace, The witty aside of parting my waters And chasing all meaningful locusts Into the way my heart chose to break In its own godless Egypt of a body. The myriads of thoughts you stir At night, in-between days, into the flick Of the hand that writes its wrist And the spring of ink you placed Into the tips of my fingers. I need you at a safe distance, At the end of the world, where time Feels generous to the likes of us, Away from the occasional splash Of bad taste that trims the hem Of our daily compromised attires.