I don't know what to call her. She's too vibrant for a name.
What shall I call her?
Juliet?
Yes, dear.
Helena?
Yes, dear.
And Cassandra, and Cleopatra, and Beatrice, and also Guinevere.
What, dear?
I think she's there. Can you hear me?
Barely.
I've been speaking of you.
To who?
To them.
I told them that if someone were to ask me to describe you,
I would be utterly and totally speechless.
Except to say, perhaps, that you are Polaris, or the inside of a leaf.
Speak a little louder.
I love you.
If I were in the desert deep in sand,
and the sun was burning like a hop on granite,
walking through a nightmare in the heat of a summer day,
until my mind was parched,
then you are water,
cool, clear water,
a refreshing glass of water.
What, dear?
You are water.
Love, you are love,
better far than a metaphor can ever, ever be.
Love, you are love,
my mystery of love.
If the world was like an iceberg,
and everything was frozen,
and tears turned into icicles in the eye,
and snow came pouring,
and sleet and ice came stabbing like a knife,
then you are heat,
a fire alive with heat,
a flame that thaws the iceberg with its heat.
Repeat.
You are heat.
Love, you are love,
better far than a metaphor can ever, ever be.
Love, you are love,
my mystery of love.
You are Polaris,
the one trustworthy star.
You are, you are, you are September,
a special mystery to me, to me.
You are sunlight, light,
mountains, valleys,
the microscopic inside of a leaf.
My joy, my breeze,
my star, my peace.
Love, you are love,
better far than any metaphor can ever, ever be.
Love, you are love,
my mystery,
his mystery of love,
love, love.
© transcript Emily Beynon