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Threshold

Threshold.

You

You.

You

You.

You

You.

Our Becoming

Our Becoming.

Hum

She stood in the low tide–
Sun licked and salt kissed
Legs exquisite like a heron’s. She hummed
to herself—and became electric.

Her;
The way a sad song
Played beautifully can bring joy.
The way the last rays of evening light
Acquiesce to the dark of night.

Me;
At best a semicolon–
A momentary pause. At any instant,
Rendered mute by beauty.

Beyond the branch where I sat
there was nothing. Beyond her
green eyes reflecting the shiny sinews
of sardines-the fear of my breath
abstracting the perfection.

Pelagic Hummingbird

 

I imagine us talking not around it, but under it. I imagine that the knowing of what each other knows is enough. Just enough. And that the warmness that expands like ink in water is the same for us both. 

We gather ourselves in the oceans behind our hearts. Out here, in the pelagic, we are thousands of nautical miles from any shore of any cotenant. And so, we are lawless. Immune to the confines of what any group of men in uniforms put into place. 

Its deeper and bluer and more clear here than I ever could have imagined. But its enough that our toes point in the direction of what lies beyond. And it’s enough that our eyes continue to find each other, suddenly and completely arrested. 

Perhaps on another planet, at this very moment, we are waltzing. Perhaps in another life, I’m giving birth to you as I feel your body pulse and twist through me, and in that moment, also become you as your tiny lungs accept the strange weight of air.  And perhaps it’s because of all of this that I suddenly feel electric next to you. There’s a current that runs through us and the salt water of our cells knows this fully. 

And yet my mind feeds in tiny drops of red nectar from what is unknown. And this hummingbird heart rests at 250 bpm. But I know when to break and how to follow the seam that was stitched 28 years ago. I know with precision how to pluck each bright feather and I’m learning the discipline to molt.

In the Memory of Rain

Sometimes water is not needed, some things can grow in the memory of rain.

I want to touch you from here—to see your green eyes fill with bated tears and the way they seem to hold me, even oceans away.

Let’s forget the last 10 years. Lets forget the coke, the X, and the pills.

Lets forget the mental institution.

Lets forget how you just tried to kill yourself, stabbing a hair away from the femoral artery.

We haven’t spoken in months. But I know you, like breath. I miss you.

Some people build whole cities in your heart.

Im not sure if its that im rushing or its that im realizing this is one moment stretched like a gummy worm and turning chalky at its sinews.

Im not sure what really grows at the junction of trust and apathy. I think its likely weeds. Beautiful weeds that grow magenta and lilac and outside of all our empty demands to disappear they continue to thrive here and we’ll continue to pretend we’ll get around to picking them but really just admire how the sunlight dances on their dew.

I wish to be you for a moment and not remind you of your beauty or how much you are loved or even how this is all a dream. I wish more to hold you from the inside with steady hands and feel you being held, completely.

I wish more for you to give up.

But not in that way of finding an artery with a sharp blade but in the way of giving it all up.

Letting it all rise belly-up to the surface like a billion tiny jellyfish.

Because the truth is in the spaces.

And life, real life, is in the synapse–The tiny firework we wish to milk from

and are born from each time we wake up

to the all the pockets of air in between. 

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