As I lie waiting

Remember when the drinks stopped pouring and I came undone?
walking home completely sober limbs pulled apart
concrete under finger nails I dug in desparation
past any point of return
dug a grave shallow so all would see my rot

What prayers were said?
who stood vigil as I returned to earth?
did you sprinkle sand and seeds over my greening grave?

Did you kiss the memory of loving me in the dark?
the softness of my skin seared into your fingertips.
How many tears were shed?
did you count and collect them all?
A quantification of a life lost…
a callous number to round out so much incomplete dreaming…

footsteps never taken
passports never stamped
but so many stolen kisses
So many words bleeding heavy over poorly bound books
purchased in the absence of real direction

grants unfinished
unfollowed up on
without any hope of panning out
effort to what end?

now I am the bones ground away by time
the marrow that feeds worms
the earth
now I wait for the sun

Sweating and Waiting

I rub your face with my sweat slick hands
Hands I sat on and rocked waiting for you to arrive.
Hands that were as cold as they were filled with anticipation.

My ass was cold through thin trousers made of cheap cotton sewed by small children.
Children with big eyes and brown skin.
Children that for a difference of a few years, looked just like me
I smelled my sweat and the cold wind hitting it just so that anyone who came near me would know … “Yes, winter sweat, that is what I am smelling.”
This intermingled with the rusty bench, cold and metal.
These scents existed in a loop my mind traveled across paying attention to each part in a sequence, over and over.

All while waiting.


Fluids fell out of me as I anticipated you.
Your feet stepping on concrete.
The feeling my eyes sent my hands as always imagining caressing your coat when I saw you before burying my hands diving past each layer.
I always sought skin.
I wanted to find where I could feel your life…pulsing and tell you with my fingertips how much I loved you.

I couldn’t with my mouth because it would scare us both but my hands could whisper truths to your spine.
I know your heart would hear.

For now, sweating and waiting.

On Being Water

I am an ocean.
I am rivers, estuaries, and seas.
I am moving living water.

I flow, dive, soar up towards the sky and exist with a kind of freedom beyond words that demands so much if you watch.

Rain I am rain.
I am relentless, pounding, and shimmering.

Water that cycles and lives.
Moves and loves.

That is me.

Relearning to submerge

I gave up the possibility of marriage and a house.
A fat pug, a chubby baby, safety in arms that held me and a framed degree.

Can I dive into the water instead?
Water deep and dark?

Can I relearn to love the feeling of being submerged?

 

I remember at 10, after diving off the diving board.

The electricity as I approached, dizzying.

Hitting the water and then …. silence.

 

Can I live there in the water just before resurfacing again?
I really loved that swimming silence.
Before becoming afraid.

 

What is good is not drowning, when I am endlessly choking on my own fear?

No shores, I will allow islands but no shores of safety.
No pool edges to cling to.
No false safe shores at least.
No, not for me.
For as soon as I take steps, my skin burns and I shrivel.

Please, can I swim again?
I think some drowning is needed.

No alms required

My pussy isn’t a begging bowl.

I do no offer it open and pleading
trying to capture any affection you should choose to fill it with.

Do you imagine that later I sift through the contents while lying on the cold tiled bathroom floor?
Fingers deep in my cunt searching for something resembling love as your reckless indecision pours out white and sticky onto my thighs?

My mouth isn’t trying to hold your tongue between my teeth.
Why would I silence a voice I have pleaded to hear so many times? Do you know how much of my own blood I swallow each time I bite down on the words your actions make me fearful to say?

I do not tie your hands together with my pink rope. Neither do I shackle your feet to one place with gold bands, red silk, nor the weight of so much guilt.

I only offered water, asked for stories, and gave you the warmth of my bed to rest from your days of running.
All the while seeing the expanse of your dreams and hoping you would not cower at the sheer magnitude of my own.

Wet Earth Pierced

Sexy is summer sweat and realizing how the musk of wet earth first pierced reminds me of the first time I explored you from behind.
I love the smell.

I always want to be deliberate with you.
I coaxed and nudged, raining down kisses as I dug deeper still.

Wet earth, I only dig in wet earth.
Let me drown if I must, breathing only enough to continue.

Your mouth a prayer, i can never forget the first time i watched desire play over your face.

I want to tear into you still.

Sweaty Yoga Spaces

I watched the sky turn pink as I stretched to the east
Further and further I released towards a brick wall.

The humidity drew us all close.
Snuck under our shirts,
Soaked our chests and ran down the length of our spine
Drops of sweat like fingers making you gasp upon contact.

Eyes wide. Undeniable to even the most unobservant.
Something. is. happening.
Someone is responding.

Me.

The wood, fuck, the smell of the wood floor made everything hotter.
The smell of cedar driving the unending heat.
I parted my mouth to pant just for a moment and suck the heat in as I lay back.
Awash in my heat.

Slick.

I licked the salt on my upper lip, immediately prompting me to reach out for an equally sweaty jar of water.
Moisture met moisture as I drank down deeply

I prayed to my tiny secret gods that I always remember the spaces and moments where I can make time stop and my hands can remember further than the places they are able to touch.

Sanctuary in the simple

Pleasure in minutes, moments, even morsels.
Pleasantries in teas.
Traveling to get the tea.
The halo of a street light on the way there.
The scent of the tea brewing.
That first sacred sip.
They push me through, past a deep nothing into wonderment.
I don’t wake when I should, so I stare and glory at a lamp.
My prayers are written in careful neat writing to all that is ordinary.
My shelves are tidy.
My hats are where they “should” be.
Tiny victories.
Invisible battles won.
Seeing the good.
I seek out  possibility.
I hold on to her fast.
I raise her from the dead when no light exists.
Every night requires incantation.
When my heart beats and I sweat, praying for sleep.
Sick with anxiety. Riddled with failure.
Dying for a rhythm that allows me to speak a language with those that walk illuminated by her light.
Me a mere shadow looming large
May I always find sanctuary in the simple