The root of the root

I keep seeing your eyes and I wonder where they look when the wilderness creeps up from the side of the road and your camera strap starts digging into those thin shoulders. You carry so much,  and it’s beautiful how you still stand tall,  exquisite limbs stretched upwards like the  reach of those trees. I see your hope for something more like  clarity, but I can’t stop my hands from  trembling at the thought of being so much less than  every waking moment you take the time to  breathe, because your dresses only fall so perfectly on your  frame, I can’t help but feel like you’d wither under my touch, but I love to  watch the world burn and your  eyes would fuel me to  keep going.  I wonder if renaissance feels anything like the long of your arms wrapped around my neck while we slow dance to some song we’ve never heard. I wonder if my racing thoughts bring anything other than regret to the length of your spine, wondering how far is too far if we’re  given enough time.  Distance is nothing but a warm embrace, the safety of too far from our fingertips wondering about the other, keeping you  company on long drives as you toy with the  hem of your dress when stuck in traffic.  You’re the purest of lakes,  the racing of streams, the  crawl of an ocean washing up at my feet and I’ve tried to run away but the  tide just keeps rising, and your  skin in my hands feels like a drug I can’t quit. I breathe you in, cigarette breath, and you can’t help but feel  that something worthwhile comes from my slow death, too busy imagining life from behind a crackling phone call,  thousands of miles from home. And you’re alone out there,  and you wear it so well, I couldn’t dare tarnish such a  galaxy.