I am trying not to think too much these days

I am trying to let my body do more talking

It's not that I am living without thought

I am

It's just that I think I've overcome my thought

so that my body can act innate

I am talking about love here

I am trying to not think too much about love these days

before I would dissect it to little parts

and hold myself back back back back broken

bits 

broken bits

held in only my hand

until the wind blows and

I have to wait until spring again

I had a dream last night and I woke up crying. Crying because I was happy.

I dreamt I danced around an older man and at the end of the dance I felt compelled to kiss his cheek goodbye. As I grabbed his hand and leaned close to kiss him, he turned into a young man that I found incredibly attractive, and instead of a kiss, we held one another close. He said in my ear, "I want to see you again, I want to bake you a pie, a vegetable pie. I want to take you grocery shopping with me." My reply: "I would like that."

Knowing the whole time that this happened once, knowing that this never happened. Knowing that he left for a year and never came back, once, not long ago, but long enough to make it lifetimes.

But if he had grown old, he would have been that happy old man dancing around the street, dancing with me, the young memory he never forgot. I knew, also, that I wasn't myself. I was someone else too. A memory reflected in a shard of a broken mirror.

I think if my father could've been a mother, he would have been.

Mother

Sometimes I hear my mother in my self, in my actions. Sometimes I hear my mother in my voice.
Her playful way of talking to the dog, her playful way of talking to her children - these are my favorite memories of my mother. These are the things that made my father love my mother.

Father

Which made me think - what of my father do I have? His deep voice, no. But sometimes, when I'm telling a story with enthusiasm, with my arms waving above my head - I hear/see my father. I see his blue eyes light up, I see him watching us, watching to see if the story hit us deeply, I hear him turn up the volume.

I see my parents once a year and I try to make it a celebration. I try to celebrate us. And when I miss them, which I do, often, and when I hear them in me and see them, I know we are always together.

If it comes, if it comes
it will go
so
wait and want
and know


Sometimes the pain of waiting fills in the gaps of waiting
fills in the empty spaces

all lone alone all one alone

Small Apeture

It is in the place of
BECOMING
can we BEgin to SEE through a small black hole,
thin membrane lens, small holes, small holes
not too much
not too much
small aperture

The Infinite Trace

HERE IS :

A pocket of time with your hand in it. I put my hand in your hand in your pocket.

THEN WAS:

a time when this between you and I seemed like an ocean – yet the horizon, we could all agree, the horizon we could ,  if we held up our finger, trace it. My finger pressing against yours. The infinite trace.

NOW IS:

a place much like the past – occupying the same amount of space, whethere you are here or there – then or before or after – it is still the  same. It’s when the other, the thens, flood in and push us out. This can happen. Try not to let it.

YOU ARE:
an island on a remote sea that I found one day while soaring over. I spread my wing shadow over you so you could feel my shade blocking the sun and you looked up.  You could only see my belly. You looked up, you could only see a part of me - a shape in the sun. When I landed, you could feel me.

YOU ARE:

easy surface- not yet knowing your depth, not yet aware of the space you take up, the space I can see from my sky-high eye.

I AM: 

the soft underside. Can you see what I cannot? Can your island eye trace my horizon?

I thought I should write something - say something - about this. Make it solid, take up more space outside my mind, use resources, paper lead time. 

Since you left I felt a peace, a slow peace, within myself. This does not mean you created war. I am the kingdom of my own body. But, also, yes :  because I am my body, that is why you move me. 

MORE! Give me more! Move me, let him move me - you you you you! You do not move in the right ways, you do not touch me here and there. Him, I want him. 

This, my body says to me and reminds me to a point that it squeezes my mind, squeezes my legs, my hands sweat and my mouth waters - juicy watermelon juice - the enzymes are ready and we are creating a place for you to easily settle in to. Come and move me, move all of me. 

The chameleon looked at me with anger

and began to throw tiny hooves at me

I could see the bone, and the blood -

what tiny creatures did these come from?

The chameleon grew larger, angrier, transparent

His toothless mouth opening wider and wider

Suddenly I realized, he was only hungry so 

I held him - he was only a light translucent blue then -

And he struggled

But eventually felt the firm and the warm and 

became solid, green.

He reached his palms out to me,

sat on my shoulder, held on tightly.