Yours.

Sheets of blank paper.

Write. Write me a story. Write me a poem. Write our story. Our story inverse, in verse. Write till the words become an extension of your body. Write till each letter feels like a piece of your heart. Write like the poet you are. Write me a play which lasts a lifetime. Write till you feel giddy with excitement. Write our names a million times in invisible ink, so you can write over and over like on a sandy beach. Then write them once with indelible ink, like the picture in your mind of the most beautiful thing you ever saw.

Sheets of empty canvas.

Paint. Paint your love. Paint till the colours ebb and flow, like emotional tidal waves that wash over you and me. That leave me, drained, on the shores, where I can follow your footsteps in the sand to a home in the woods. Paint the tears that run down, like raindrops on windowpanes, like happiness into your soul. Paint me the future. Paint me a fairytale. Fill in the gaping holes in my body with the warm hues of the look in your eyes. Paint me pretty pictures of us in the sun, in the rain, in the cold, in the ocean, through the storm, in starry nights, in wide open fields, trapped in a thought, flying through hidden caves, drowning in words, drowning in silences; so I can hang them on the walls of our little world.

Sheets of unfilled tablature lines.

Sing. Compose the tune my heart sings at the sight of you. Sing like nobody but I can hear you. Sing till your throat burns like my skin at your touch. Sing till you can see us dancing, tiptoeing around the notes. Sing till the dawn finds us wrapped in technicolor dreams and drenched in wine. Sing till we get thrown out of the opera for being unruly. Sing till the melody runs right through you and makes you shiver in summer, like you sometimes do. Sing me a wave of joy so high it crashes like a clap of thunder and leaves us breathless and laughing like mad children. Sing me a song more beautiful than yesterday and call it tomorrow.

These sheets are yours. Fill them, for they are me.