I’m reaching out — there was an old man way out West who seemed to think or know that the stones in the fields standing for millennia were communications devices — telephones — telestones — what the old ones knew back then, we don’t want to know now — but what would they have communicated? And what would carry the current of power if not this — these words —
I love you.
That is the only thing worth uttering — I love you.
And the longer that time passes between the touch of our skin, the more that becomes the only thing to say —
I love you — a stitch in the fabric of time — the linkage between hemispheres, between your mouth and mine —
I love you — it’s like there’s nothing left to say — so I could say that to a stone here and know you’ll pick it up from a stone on a walk somewhere and you’ll know that message was left by me — you’ll know by the way that the sea caresses you some cold morning or the way the fire melts the icicles between your toes — you’ll feel it —
I love you — and perhaps you’ll feel that too and send it back — and I’ll be sitting by a river and the reeds will whisper it to me — or maybe it’ll come in rain that soaks into my skin —
I love you — these words are a spell that is not cheapened but made more powerful every time it is uttered — to be human, to love, to reach out from one lonely island to another in an attempt to bridge the aching gap — remember — perhaps we have to say it enough until it collapses in on itself — and all that’s left is Love itself —
Love itself — Love — Love — Love — you make me a channel that pulses thus —
Love. Love. Love.
I love you.