When we begin
the feelings seem to rush at us like a tragedy–
a thousand different
shattered pieces
all clamor for attention at the same time.
We make these feelings solid:
this pain in my neck,
the unease in my shoulders,
that weight of
I don’t know what to do,
the sense that
time is running out, and the
shock
of discovering all this in my body.
Even now,
I feel myself leaning towards you– murmuring things
about things–anything it seems,
to get away from
the strength of this noise.
Eventually though
we become exhausted
keeping up with such assignments–
tracking who did what to us and what it means about
me to have such scars.
Eventually, we grow tired even of indulging ourselves, and keeping such a vigilant watch over the way that time passes–
the wrinkling of soft skin around the eyes, and every new shade of hair color.
We become exhausted remembering
all these words for things,
assigning worth to concepts
as though we could
buy our ways out of confusion,
as though we really could end suffering with a degree, or a drug.
And when we have strained enough
we forget.
In a flash we discover the openness of space.
In a moment
we just are
beings.
It isn’t long before the heart beat
starts to make sense again, though.
And I
quite naturally
yearn for the way I am certain
your lips will fit over mine.
I crave the weight of your
body in my arms
and the smooth expanse of your back against my breasts.
The way the glow of the fire catches
the lightening at your temples–
it begs for the trace of my fingertips,
and when I reach down to touch
the earth
every part of me is embraced
in return.
