my hands search around

fumbling in the dark

for something i know is here.

but it’s not.

but it is.

how can it not be?

explain to me, you,

who are watching the game

and pulling the strings,

how my hands brush against her cheek as i play with her loose strands?

i can feel the air leaving my body

as lips travel along her angles

which leave geometry useless and alone.

beyond grammar

there is a place where my words count for something more.

yet there is nothing more i need.

my heart has been set free and the doors are all open.

no one is leaving or coming or going.

it is with this axe,

passed down

in secret

from generations beyond,

that i lay waste to the walls i have built for protection.

without shelter from the storm i learn to live like the forest.

bend like the reeds.

i have been allowed access to secrets i never imagined would exist.

my hands.

my mouth.

my head.

my heart.

they play instruments of her nature.

and she sings songs

that make the world want to live again.

and i mean live,

not survive.

survival is for the weak

and uninformed.

settling is for the dead leaf which has fallen.

not for the vines which outstretch their hands to you.

make me blossom,

make me live

and die.

alive.

and

well.