Somewhere in the hills, there is a cottage without our name on its door front. My love, you and I will find our romance in daily chores and shades of silence.
When it is cold, we will dust old sweaters and discard them for blankets and the warmth of our bodies. When it is wet, we will go outside to hold each other steady in wet mud. You can write and I can read and we will make our lives of book shelves and papercuts.
There will be ink on your fingers, on my neck and my waist. Green glass bangles will break when we cook. Rain to wipe our sweat, salt to satiate the spice.