Mon cherie.
I miss you so.
And I come up for air.
A hot bowl of soup on a cold night.
A warm face to say to, happy I am today, how are you?
Love fills my heart and it stills my face and then I sit and stare at the walls and wish that the light was still there.
But it is the dark.
The night of winter.
The cold laying frost.
The dormant.
Before the growth.
That is what I believe.
And there is so much love, so much grace, so much more than you can ever imagine, than I can ever imagine and I sing poetry under my breath wishing to encapsulate it all.
I cannot though.
There is a fullness, a fire, a heat, a warmth, a softness, a softening, an astounding, a tenderness, and it aches with all that it does.
I just wrote “id.”
Freudian slip.
Excuse me.
Where was I?
I digress.
She’ll break her own heart.
A beautiful death, that.
And a poem for you that I wrote, aching and full and saddened in the seeping twilight sky that bled rain through the ragged grey clouds outside the window of my class Thursday morning.
I am Going to Go Now
The unwinding inevitable, the snowflake dredged with grime
A kissing time, a hand print fingered dove grey
Soot smeared and dusted with transitory crimes–
Passion pushed, outlined darkling cashmere fey.
Smudged with the meaning of God, gold patterned
Euthanasia, impacted without you, focused after life
Fabled and unique. This too is true. Maneuvered
Polite, we dance the waltz of unspoken strife
Rife with lusted desire. Pagan with practice
Patience and archetypal, the sparked pointed Southern
Crossing resurrected, convicted by love, the chalice
Over full, the wetness on my lips, the flight, a turn,
Rebirth, the exodus of uncertainty belies my certainty
Of you and our luminous connecting, a mastered calamity.
I am grateful for passing time, even when it pains in the passing.
I have felt achey and full and wide open and perhaps that has something, everything, to being in school these last three days. Not a night in three that I got more than five hours sleep, not a day that didn’t go by where there weren’t tears.
I am in school to be a therapist.
The tears, they do happen.
They happen sometimes in class, sometimes after, sometimes, more times this past week than I really wanted to, when I went to bed, the slip of tears on my face.
Potentially lonely/perpetually human/suspended and/open/open.
OPEN.
So wide open.
So painfully, wide open.
It feels like my heart is on a plate, not silver, not a platter, but a plate, bone china, the cusp of the new moon gilding the edge.
It’s a good place to be.
This teetering on the cusp.
It sounds painful.
And.
Yes.
It is.
And yet, so alive.
So exquisite.
So enlivened.
So playful, when I don’t feel shattered in the leavings of my old idea and the imprinting of the new upon that smote landscape of love and loss and longing.
Smote.
That is how it feels.
Searing.
The grief rolls through, over, and plunges me down and there, a stillness, a pearlescent shell, a spiral, the nautilus, the tiny chambers of soul lit phosphorescent and gilt.
I climb in and float away.
This embedded moment brought to you by listening to too much Regina Spektor (but oh, there is no such thing as too much, not really not ever) and the sad sweetness of end times and new beginnings.
I had my last class today of the semester.
I had a long day, a long week, a big weekend and now, it’s back to work.
With a brief moment of respite in the evening with a friend over soup and Thai food over in the hood.
I have had so much happen over this past six months and it astounds and I look about and I realize I have almost made it and there is still so much more to go, so more to be realized.
So much more of me to be realized.
And so.
And so.
So.
I don’t understand/if I kiss you where it’s sharp/if I kiss you were it’s sore/will you feel better?/better/better/will you feel anything at all.
ANYTHING AT ALL.
Oh.
I will.
I assure you, I will feel all the feels.
Little fuckers.
I am feeling all of them.
Grateful that tonight I will get a full night’s sleep, and yes, there could be more tears on the pillow, tears aren’t such a bad thing, my small dulcet downfall, the shallow sip of sea salt on my cheeks, the flush of my face against the sheet pulled up by my head, the crush of the weight of love and the foolish tender softness of dreams that push themselves into the wet lashes resting on the tops of my cheeks.
The stars, that old light, the seeps in between the cracks.
The liminality of love.
The threshold to the moon.
I watched the sky today while I sat in the student kitchen, the bright, high blue, the push of scudded white bounded clouds, the flight of a seagull in between the buildings.
I ate an apple with sea salt sprinkled over it.
I thought about eating apples, walking the streets of Paris, cold and scared and alive and undone and all done back up again.
I go back in a week.
I thought about Paris.
I thought about the paintings.
Kandinsky, Accent en Rose, at the Pompidou.
Kandisky-Accent in Rose
I thought about the alone.
I thought about the aliveness in me.
I felt the lonely and the alive and the love and let it wash over me, the soar of the gull in the sky, the press of the blue, the powder of the clouds, the clock over the counter winding down the minutes to my last class of the day.
That much closer.
Still so far away.
A reckoning on the horizon.
Love in the streets, the cobblestones smothered in shine and light from the lamp posts, the impossible sparkle of the Eiffel Tower.
Dazzle
And my heart a glow.
A small spot, a spiral of ember over the ocean, the rushing sea, the Christmas tree burning on the edge of the water, the beach a bonfire of holiness and the beckoning of the North Star.
I know not into what I walk.
But I walk ever forward.
Joy smeared and sacred with the smut of my own carnal life, the living.
It is good.
Don’t let me fool you.
It is all good.
So good.
So overwhelmingly painfully.
Wonderfully.
Good.
It doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.
It does.
I am still the love smitten fool.
Who would I be?
If I weren’t wearing my heart on my sleeve.
At least it goes well with my clothes for Paris.
Transparent authenticity usually does.
And perfect attire for riding to the top of the ferris wheel.
I’ll blow you kisses from the pinnacle.
I promise.
They may be burnished bittersweet.
But.
They will.
Be.
All.
Mine.
Auntiebubba 