I try to call Your name, Beloved. There is a name my heart has for You; but it is not yet known to me. It sticks in my throat, stills my tongue when i try to speak it. My mouth cannot yet be made to utter it. So i give You my mouth instead, and hope You taste there the words i would speak, if i myself knew them.
My Beloved’s lips are stained in shades of red: the earthy sting of pomegranate seeds and the warm tang of raspberries, the burn of rich red wine and the fire of red, red blood. That is my Beloved: berries and blood, sharp and sweet and oh—but more than that, forgive me, i cannot say. I haven’t the words.
And i hear in the silent stillness that lingers between Your words that there is a word You have not quite said, a word for what this is, for what w/We are—i to You, and You to me.
You called me ‘friend’ once, and i laughed (Gods know where i get the gall) and said, ‘Friend? Is that all i am?’ And You turned, hawk-sharp eyes and wolf-sweet smile and asked, ‘What would you say you are to Me?’ I fell silent. Understand: not because i have no words, Beloved; but because i am not yet bold enough to utter them.
I stand naked before You because You bid me do so. All my walls You commanded i take down, stone by stone, that You might drape Your coat around my shoulders and have it be all the shield and sanctuary that i have. Glad i now stand, on the far side of fear, clothed in nothing but the promise of You.
I know no word for what You are to me, less what i am to You. And never, ever, could i have the words for what i felt when You came to me and folded Yourself—Your immeasurable Self—in the space between my curled arms and bare body, and i wrapped You in the very cloth that You had first hung over my naked shoulders. How can i be Your shield even as You are my sanctuary? There are moments when i very nearly know, when understanding only just exceeds my grasp. But the moment passes, and i am left without the words. I have no word for this, just as i have no name for You, Beloved. But maybe ‘Beloved’ is enough.