My skin is soft but what part of me isn’t (besides the scars, I mean)? My skin, a kind of map, a version of me you choose to trace and buy into. At least for a time. I imagine your fingers trace me because, like me, they are curious about the route we are on and like me, wonder what sights we will see along the way.
We seek direction even when we say we prefer to be lost.
My body secretly warms to your touch; we pretend there is nowhere else you’d rather be. And when we smile, it is not because anything has settled, it is simpler than all that; it is because something grows – and the mystery of our meeting, and sharing, and fatally flawed offerings fill us to spite our tenderest selves.
Yet, in the abundance of hope, in the sanctuary of faith, I speak words full of sacred. I speak the fullness of myself. I utter shape that carves the path leading straight to my heart.
And we dance.
And we dance.
And we dance.
The word comes from the body. When you speak, breath reunites thought with flesh. And with that comes a whole new awareness of what might be true. Or not.
Or not.
– Lola Moi –
