I practice the art of not being chosen in all the ways that happens.
It follows me as a drumbeat set in rhythm to each step,
lightly tapping against my ribs.
I sing in counter melody;
the clouds keep forgetting the chorus.
Everything has become simple.
The perfection of light reflects deep and true.
I close my eyes against the shade and finally see;
memory, a key to a series of finicky handles.
I have seen Beautiful.
(Your pulse is proof.)
I have inhaled Almost-Promise.
I have screamed secrets to the moon:
Besides the wind,
I want only your hands sliding along the smoothest of my inner thigh,
a delicate slip and slide beneath my flitting skirt.
Sometimes our prayers sound exactly like chipping teeth.
Lovers prove false when
re-made in the image of (small) lifetimes built
upon pyres fueled: guilt, fear… shame, and more.
(I think I have a list somewhere around here.)
There is no coming quite like the certainty of going
and staying.
But I am not waiting;
I set down that map long ago,
even before you walked in and out the door.
The unknown:
may it be more than enough,
the very essence of our breath,
the very best yet.
