Thursday, March 27, 2014

mouth full of mountain

It is light. The kind of blue at dawn and simmering yellow right before dusk. It is barely a thing you can point to. It will not be fibbed with watercolors. A collection of sound? Maybe. It is a bit of the charred wreckage from that which burned you before. It is a victory in the most unexpected of moments. It is the understanding that bravery breathes deep in that which trusts and believes. Love is never the flexed arm hang. Love is letting go.

Love is not the romanticized drama daydreamed in my youth--cinematic scenes of bar, perfect halves of grapefruit in an all white kitchen, stories built on typewriters with too long descriptions of a lover's autumn hair or wrapped legs. Love is not just red. She's got stacks of teeth and some are soft. It is the surreal terrain of our skin. The cul-de-sac of a lover's elbow. Hum-stumble of heart. Sun staggering our faces on left turns.

Love is holding up in moment of weakness. Those moments when I feel like my skin is missing and my nerves are connecting with all outside surfaces and I can't control it. When I am bent in half in pain and there aren't words. Just sounds. And the sounds could call whales, and the sweat sprouting up the spine could be slid into a cup, a manmade lake of pain. It is the hand finding mine in this moment. Or knuckles guiding a wet rag along neck and forehead. It is encouragement, quiet, or it is the silence needed and never said. Never requested. It is presence for the dark.

I run out of words. I circle the instinct of my feelings, both prey and fascination. When I shake from the fading awful, I curl to fit your quadricep and hip. I ask you, tiny-voiced, to tell me a story from your own life. And you do. Without hesitation, you do.

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