An arrow, even Cupid’s, carries a slant of sorrow at its tip.
The thump it makes when hitting mark is felt across the space: an arrow straight to the heart.
In the space between the letting go and arrival there is grace.
The longer the shot, the greater the loft. This is the world of gravity.
Each arrow learns the pain of time and space, the small corruptions altering its course. None ever made a bull’s eye.
When you pull back the bow, left arm extended as far as it can go right hand holding nock near chin, back arched, in that moment before the arrow’s launched, stretched to your limit, I find you beautiful.
Pierced through by your arrow I bleed bliss, unable to staunch the wound.
If there was not an arrow, this life would be a narrow and harrowing existence.