My gift from the Heavens is that of understanding.
To see order in chaos.
Once the static is separated the picture’s luminance flies off the page. The answer illuminated.
Then my dearest, there’s you.
You’re simply impossible.
There is no pattern, no rhyme, no reason to your nature.
I cannot predict, track, or accurately map your wildly fantastic spirit. To my structuralist patterns you are a maelstrom on my senses.
My heart strings are tangled in a web of your exploding colour
yet my intellect cannot begin to unravel your mystery.
So I embark on my life’s greatest work to discover your enigma. I’ll attempt to understand your weather patterns as you pull me into your hurricane.
Catch me my darling. I’m here waiting.
My Impossible boy.