Although it is difficult
for a type who has accepted their solitude,
so that it has become a place of solace,
to admit that parts of them can be changed
by another, they must;
and soothe themselves with the thought
that although they are porous,
and can be moved or incited,
the following chemistry can transform,
and possibly even heal,
in the company of another.
One can not always be who they are in solitude.
Ones feeling and behavior is sensitive
to the affect of those closest to them.
Pride becomes docile.
Ego is humbled.
Pieces of you evaporate as others activate.
Passions grow hotter.
Insecurities shake and whimper
as one is rearranged.
Yes, solitude is a simpler place to act virtuously from.
Were you burning for us
in between the deep warm crosscurrents
of blissful veins.
Do you remember the chords
to the song we wrote—
the song that held every sound
I longed to cast upon a crowd.
The notes are now too sweet and thick
for my throat.
There is not enough air in my lungs
to carry those wandering melodies.
I have tried to keep a pulse in the stanza.
I am spinning in the center of the shapes
your fingertips make.
I am bending with your strings,
and I am uncovering our shared dream.
If you are only a memory
than I hope that a memory
can be sturdy enough
to keep my passions.
I grow grey and vapid.
I trade the Blues for Bach.
I am translating soul into statistic.
And I am forever searching for the sound we make
in the hollows of drums and guitars,
in the cadence of mundane conversation.
When I make that sound again I will be home.
Were you burning for us
in between the deep, warm crosscurrents
of blissful veins?
Do you remember the chords to that song we made?
So many singers.
Enough for four thousand choirs.
Was it God under their skins
that made notes emit from their bellies
bright as epiphanies?
Are we all pouring from the same endless ocean
What is in us that makes this music?
It turns me inside out.
It moves and rocks my organs
into deep restoration,
takes me back to source.
So many singers.
So many mother songs
leading us into cosmic intimacy,
folding us into blankets of constellations.
What did I hear through the open window
of that kitchen in that second story apartment?
A medicine woman, a wise man?
Endless jazz and philosophy?
Was it a stranger understanding me?
When he finds her
I hope his world stops spinning.
And every portion of taste
that she gives him satiates his wonder
for days at a time.
I hope that she is his gravity,
I hope he cherishes every grain of sugar
she places on his tongue.
I hope that he desires nothing,
no one else.
Image by Paolo Ceric
I want to love you more than poetry.
I want to surrender to you
like a melody that is so warm
and softly perfect
that it melts me entirely.
a form of art that is exquisite,
Image: Youssef Gika
I have not come here to teach you.
I have not come to heal you.
I am not divinely manifested.
I am not the eternal feminine incarnated
to cosmically yin your yang.
I came here to write, explore, read
I came here to burn and be whole
on my own.
Do not harm me and call it your
I will never be the rubble you
leave behind in the wake of your
Woman: the stolen domestic labor
used to bolster the experiment of capitalism.
Woman: the embodiment of softness made to teach love
to men who have had compassion washed out of them.
I have been writing letters to amend our silence.
Stanzas rush in.
They foam, glisten
and slide back away
before I have time to learn
how not to fear their cold kisses.
I begin to say farewell to them
before they retreat back into that
I am brimming.
Churning with unnamed wishes
that I want to whisper into the ear
of a future lover.
I agree to hold my tongue.
I take on the practice of not needing.
Was it only last year that I begged for passion,
that I asked for some precise incision.
I must atone for each need that I forced into silence
to continue to prove my worth to you.
Each self betrayal rushes back in in waves
to depict clearly how easily I will abandon myself.
There is no need
only an impossible dream.
While I was practicing muteness
you kept yourself pleasantly distracted.
Every day you were not fully present
was an abandonment.
There will be no further instruction.
I wanted to name it a great love.
I wanted to win his affection.
It was only an exercise
of turning the self inside out.
An exercise of learning
the faint distinctions
and heart break.
I prefer melancholy.
I now understand why lost love
is a tale of trauma
rewritten again and again.
And I listen.
I am listening.
visual artist unknown