Oh, glorious archer,
+++++++ you aim too low
pulling back on string
+++++++ with fingers too bluntly

You’ll get what you hit
+++++++ and nothing worth hitting

They cannot
+++++++ make you
++++++++++++ quiver

They cannot understand the bend of your bow,
+++++++ your back,
++++++++++++ your will and your wounds

They cannot know the heat of your temples,
+++++++ and the curved edge of your lips

They can only observe
They cannot
+++++++++++ comprehend

while I slide down the vulnerable skin of your neck
+++++++ to pool in the hollow of your throat.
I lick down your sternum, feathered fletching and shaft,
+++++++++++ and taste tempests.
When skies open, you glower,
+++++++ growling at gusts that dare breathe you to higher mark

Believe me:
++++++++ I +++++++ can
++++++++++++++++++++ make you
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ shiver
and you’ll miss me with your every arrow,
+++++++ every jab, every shot

Because you cannot
++++++++++++ comprehend
You stomp in a puddle and think you’ve beaten the rain

You remain an archer,
+++++++ restrained in a prison of perfect muscle
and able form,
++++++++++++++ comforting yourself with thoughts
+++++++++++++++++++++++++ of your might and power

And, oh, archer, you are glorious

But to touch me,
+++++++ you must first become

the wind