Listen to the audio or read your way through, beware, you may wander, or feel something slightly tingly wistful or rejuvenated by the question <3
Ask yourself please, what may I do if I were to be in relation with something as beautiful as my own skin? and listen, not to the answer, the voices, nor the heart, but the truth in the matter of love and you being in the same sentence together <3
These worlds whirl around themselves and make no nest in the heart for Meaning takes time to conjure
I don’t have big breakthroughs these days
I don’t have big emotional shifts and states
Instead I’m swooned, and oddly comforted and not wanting heartbreak but waiting for it around the corner
For my life to need poetry to breathe living cells awake again
Instead I’m slightly ok
And it worries me
For to not need this pen and ink
This thought making itself on the page
Is like loosing a friend you emotionally dumped on half your life and then left them on the curb wishing your relationship was better
I can let go of a practice but not myself
And thus poetry has no way of leaving me, only me it
And I regret to say my words have been stale as of late, but not my life
My life is finally somehow finding its footing
Finding its reasoning for love languages to not be lost in translation
For self surety to not be needed, so needed that another can not dynamic their way into my heart
There is this swoon about life now, not steeped in ritual unfortunately but surrounded by people
A little too many nights on instagram
Scrolling and wanting feeling yet pulling away and far form this body
I search
We all do
For not the foreboding end of it all but the beginning
The in-between we spend the liminal tying ourselves to trees instead of talking to them
Holding down our own wrists instead of kissing them
We do not need saviour but ritualistic time to ourselves at night
Maybe ill talk for myself
And me only
When I say I need a boat to live on
And yet there she is waiting
And to court a thing
To be in relationship wth it
Its history
Its love languages
Its curves and its shapes and colours and love poured in
I see now how Frankenstein was made, how love gets poured into the somehow westernized thought of allopathic beingness that is adjacent to god but not of body
Not of animalistic truth, grounded in animal breathing
No
This being doesn’t need my breath to breathe
But to become it may have some sort of creator in mind to conjure up with
Some sort of being that can wish themselves awake and find the wreckage waiting
And pick up a hammer that they have seen before but never used
And not use its et, because I have to paint first
Im embarrassed constantly
For not knowing what I’m doing
Fictioning up an old boat
Making a story of it
And its living flesh breathe stories of cedar and song and healing maybe
This being
China cloud is my love language
I have yet to see her sail
But the fixtures and the lighting
Incandescent that I brought in
Make her swoon a little and whisper me stories
Ones I am always surprised by
Can we always go through life tripping and finding surprises
Shapes on our faces of mud and of sticks and berries
Some oracular mess this must seem to the rest of us
Trying to decipher intuition from fear
Making life decisions that make so sense to a commoner within
There is no sense to be made when we choose love
And yet
Somehow it cracks into our being and makes a breath softer
That is how we know we have not been persuaded into something ill but sirened into the depth of something beautiful
China cloud is a boat
I should say
And I don’t know yet what relationship will be of us
But the commitment isn to omitted from this story
But brings it deeper
Summer winter, who knows how we will spend
Creative cave and canvas
Home and sanctuary
Clinic and healing therapy
Your walls are hands that I will rest in for eternity
I love you.
