There Will Be Horses On My Farm

What usually wakes you up? Cold lemon water with honey for me. 

The sound of hoofs against halomorphic soil is a close second though. 

There’s a trail crawling through our pasture.


Discombobulated at frail sections but never for too long.

“I want to be as close as humanly possible with you,” says the path to my being.

“I don’t even want to distinguish where my body ends and yours begins.”

These words are sipped on. Savory. 

I walk by love here. Tempted to let the Sauvignon take over my senses.

Are you entranced?

Which pleasure will fill my glass the quickest?

All I can do is play hide and seek with language, so 


My feet are open and tender.

Earth’s voice makes people want to be silent for a bit, so they can listen.

So I’m willing, and I’m listening.

Messages don’t come often but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t heavily anticipated.

And missed.

They were sweet like what I thought this wine would taste like as a child.

I’ve accepted bitterness as a necessary part of the journey. 

I send forgiveness into the void and say,

“I love kissing you too,”

as I raise this ceramic mug up to my lips.

There are no wine glasses on this farm. We value practicality here.

Pleasure is a close second, and I’m not scared of getting in trouble with anyone but myself.

All these thoughts have occurred on the way to the stables. 

It’s a long walk; I will admit.

Two twigs of lavender in my periphery remind me that there were people like us then too.

Folks who would say “I’d like to burn every prison to the ground with you”

instead of “I love you” because the love is evident, 

or, at least, I know that I love you.

My mouth is relaxing and saying things that I feel, but vulnerability is taboo.

I whisper “Give me time to relearn dominance. You made me forget” to my depressant

as I arrive à La Maison des Chevaux.

It’s in French because it makes it sound more romantic.

I’m greeted by ArabianHorse12.

Twelve hands that is. Not a pony but merely a foal.

There are miscellaneous cots laying around because raccoons can be friends too.

I’m tired, and they know that. 

I rest my hands on their face. I’ve missed this warmth. 

I didn’t really know where I ended, and you started, which seems to always be the case.

I’ve made my point now, so I must depart. 

They reside in my thoughts on repeat. Unfortunately fortunately.

I hope my hand graces their face once more.

Goodnight Sage.

I hope we meet in our dreams where self control means nothing.

There will be horses on our farm.

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