"Articulacy of fingers, the language of the deaf and dumb, signing on the body body longing. Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. Your Morse code interferes with my heart beat. I had a steady heart before I met you, I relied upon it, it had seen active service and grown strong. Now you alter its pace with your own rhythm, you play upon me, drumming me taut." Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
My heart is so full and I feel I can barely breathe. I miss you already my beautiful boy.
It is hard to write when every word, a knife, cuts through me. I am open to the journey, I have faith in the cause and hope that it all works out. What will be will be.
Why is it the absence that uncovers the weight of love?
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