embracing birth everyday, and in everyway
Sunrises through frosted glass
soften the sun’s glare,
permitting glances directly upon
love’s potential,
without burning eyes or hearts.
I look down at my lovers-
hair tussled, smiling back at me-
their open nakedness shared,
skin pressing, fingertips brushing.
She held me by firelight,
softly stroking my hair,
as he poured words out,
the world tucked away till tomorrow.
While sunrises through frosted glass
allowed glimpses of loves’ possibilities.
there you are
as I have seen you so many times
scruffy, tender, thoughtful, focused,
glancing in my direction when I catch your eye
it still thrills me,
to see your face respond
when our eyes meet
I love being in love.
I love being in love with you
and you with me.
you sat down
your necklace caught my eye
your mind caught my mind
your body caught my body
and I desired you, all of you.
You saw the path, you had walked it before
he must have known intuitively this is what I wanted but could never say
how can one desire something they never knew existed?
Yet suddenly you are here, and he is as well
and we share, our minds over dinner, our hearts over wine
our passion together, exploring, touching, discovering
how is it that no one told me of lovingkindness
manifested consciously, gently, and honestly feels so vulnerable.
yet with lovers who are brave, kind, honest and authentic
is a gateway to timelessness, bliss, and love
the future waits to see where we will walk
for now, this is as wonderful as I imagined life could be
there are moments we make decisions, unsure why,
perhaps following patterns of behavior, comforting ourselves with the familiar.
it was like that, on the porch, in his apartment, after it ended.
sex as a death rattle, deep in the chest,
the last breath of an already dead relationship.
there is a longing there, but not for that.
for explanations never given, apologies stuck in the throat
even now, envelopes remind me of all you were unable to provide.
silence familiar to me, from men who never learned how to live
from fathers who ran and never answered their little daughters’ questions
from you, unable to face yourself, and give those you tried to pull apart along the way
the truth you need, and they deserve.
silence as deafening as the last breath.
I watch her walking the floor, his head on her shoulder, then popping up, grinning at still being awake, still seeing the world around, then nestling down against all he has ever know as home.
Not so long ago it was I walking the night and she was nestled on my shoulder. You are right, I am having a conversation with my past self.
She’s not sure where she is going, she loves her babies, but baby care can be so boring. Does that mean she is a bad mother? Does that mean I will fail and mess them up somehow? How I longed for a fortune teller to tell me what to do- anything just to keep them safe and happy.
But I suppose that is the way it is. Women fall into motherhood, babies fall into our arms, and we walk the floors at night trying to get to our new love to sleep so we can figure out what our lives are all about,
Why do we long for one single other in our lives. What occurs when we give to just one, all that we are? Do our lives become more real? Why do I feel more alive? Why is life and the choices I make, the moments I experience, become more alive once shared, organized, reflected on, with another?
This sharing, my thoughts, my dreams, my hopes and losses, my day, my failures, my desire, my mornings, my nights, my body, my moments, my plans, my curiosity, my explorations, my passions, my everyday, I offer.
But I want it all in return. I want the same from you. You have moments without me, as I do you, but to share each with the other is all I ask. That is what I long for in life. Where are you?
Of course this teenage like pining makes more sense, or perhaps confusion when one considers the non-monogamous life I have found myself living. Perhaps its an issue of “life is always greener” or perhaps I am just tired and lonely lately.
I glanced her between the pines this morning, parting the down of her cloudy pillows, her head lifting above the stuff, tempting me to climb.
Or is she a he? I take the French approach, “all things horrible and bad are feminine”. But today, you are glorious, powerful, magnificent, protecting the city below. That just goes to show you, even mountains can be trans I suppose.
