You were born, of the desert.
You were born orange, pink and red.
You were neither sunset nor moon.
Howling silence or deafening crackles.
You stand taller than a boulder. Shorter than a cactus. Rabid as sharp red rock.
You are a desert girl. And as you lay in my bed I come to realize, You are a desert I will never escape, never finish traversing.
You are the desert I could spend my whole life exploring your sandy complexion, and remain stunned to how it changes every day.
I could explore your mountains, the valleys of your body and always remain a pilgrim to you, even as you lay beside me.
I cannot tame the wild creatures of your eyes. The howling wolves of your hair. The desert owl feathers of your palms, or the sweet cactus flower nectar with which you kiss me.
As I watch you drink your coffee, feet in the chair, I know these are the wild features I can never own.
And yet I will spend this one and only lifetime venturing the entirety of your landscape exploring your deep wilderness and losing myself in your ever changing vastness.
For no greater force pulls a soul than the very environment that could kill them. The blisteringly expanse of a dangerously dreamy, delicate desert girl.