Beloved, forgive me. You know that I am confounded by touch, that my tongue stumbles over the proper words to portray my true affections. I must seem so inadequate when I cannot offer you intimacy or vulnerability. I must seem so defective when the dance is not a natural rhythm to my awkward body. But I promise, dear, darling, angel, I promise I can offer you something better. I can offer you my world. I may not have the words to comfort you when you weep, but I have summer rainstorms to cool your flushed forehead. I may not have a steady voice to soothe you with lullaby when you are ill, but I have ocean waves lapping against flour shores to ease your cacophonous mind to sweet sleep. I have ripe apples spiced by autumn’s heat, peppermint snowflakes falling fat and heavy from a slate sky. I am limited, dearheart, but my world is as vast and endless as the horizon, and it is yours. These are your valleys, your mountains, your fields of wildflowers and wheat. This is your Moon rising, cold and silent, like the solitary ferryman to move across the twilight river; this is your Sun sinking in a brilliant death of red and gold beyond the far granite hills. I will give you this world, my world, my Wildland, if you will take it. It is yours, and it will welcome you.

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