Mockingbird

She is me. I saw myself in her eyes, the first time I looked. And she is not me. I felt her in my eyes, the first time she looked.  And for that second I thought of clouds, infinite and fluffy and all around us, in waves of white. I didn’t note the color of her hair or eyes or soul, but I saw her.

And I loved her.

And I loved me.

For as I fell for her I fell for myself. So deep in love, so scared to fall and hit the ground and never touch those clouds again. So scared to loose that simple feeling, where love was light, and my very soul and hers blended, and mixed, and we were one in that tiny space where it was just us and conversation and focus.

And she became the highlight of my day.

And she became the highlight of my mind.

And she became the highlight of my heart.

Until those clouds became my heart, and she settled there, nesting like a feathered thing, and replacing the beating mess of red pain I’d grown there.

And I felt the distance between us, like a bird on a limb, close or far, with little know how to fly. And my wings did not grow enough to sustain flight, for I was too young. And her wings did not grow to a span large enough to bear her weight. And I doubted it entered her mind she could fly.

But I waited, and cuddled her heart in my chest, and I waited, for the return of regard, and I waited to grow enough to fly, feeding on the wind and stars and darkness between the stars and the endless sunlight. And I grew some, but not enough, and I could not measure her wingspan but from my view it did not increase.

And despair settled over me, as well as love. For my heart reflects me, like a mirror, like a pool, like the mockery of the air carrying birdsong between the trees.

And if she is me, when I look into her soul and love it so very much, how can I not love myself? How can I not carry that feeling to the higher air and scream out the triumph of my joy? How can I not fly when all the world awaits to be seen?

For love is the very heart of me now, and love becomes me, and love enlightens my soul to infinite decay of what is gone and should not be and is not of the above.

My mockingbird, so close and so far.

I feel the love I bear thee.

And I rejoice, for when I fly, so will you know the sky. For I will bear your heart to the heavens with me, and we will see the light.

Perception

I am alone.

I walk on my feet. I see with mine eyes. I choose with my stomach. I eat of the earth. I die consciously. I am alone.

I have seen no one for days beyond days. I have seen not a soul nor a speck of activity upon the face of this plane save me. I walk up the mountains, beside the creek beds. I travel the roads gone to dust, trek the forests, swim the seas. I traverse the whole world in a lifetime. I see most everything. Alone I saw it, alone I woke into it, alone I was of it, and alone I die.

Were I to assume the existence of another such as I to give this experience to in words, and hear you ask if I was lonely, I would tell you I am not. And it is not because I know not what other’s be, but because in my aloneness I am free. There is not another to behold me.

Did it ever occur to you the moment another perceives you; you change? You become something to be perceived, categorized, labeled, inside the brain. You become a single shine on an infinite prism of what you truly be. And as they continue to perceive you, they might see to other planes, see more of you; and yet never can they fathom all you are. They cannot even yet fathom themselves. And so the moment another holds you in their perception, they limit you.

And even as I say that, I say they cannot. It was your choice to be so perceived in the first place. You imagined this potential other into existence, you imagined their perspective, you imagined their view. And verily I say it was thine own dream which saw you from such limited scope. It was thine own want. It was thine own choice.

In actuality it was mine. Because I am alone.

Upon A Morning

I dreamed of a thing I’d call lover.

I dreamed but awake I could not manifest.

I dreamed of a beloved, of a spirit other,

Of subject worthy of contemporary geste.

I woke this morning in wanting,

To feel female breath, all rhythmic in sleep,

On my arm, but I woke, reality broke,

My dream tide’s a waning neap.

I opened mine eyes to a lambency,

Then declining the dawning, shuttered lids.

Then I indulged in fascination; I lazed in imagery,

Her chirrup of laughter; a divert, a fancy,

Her smile in dreaming, drawing softly,

And lived this reality a while I did.

Dated: October 26th, 2015.

Written in rhyming scheme: ABAB/ABAB/ABAAAB

Lectured by myself: on the subject of can’t.

For the past ten minutes I have been lectured by myself.

Or rather it weren’t lecture but preaching or something to that effect. It, the other side of the argument, the other me voice, the devil’s advocate so to speak,  was discussing my accepted belief that I can’t, and demanding confirmation I had been defeated.

“So have you been defeated,” It demanded, all round words like a British dialect. “Have you been so conquered by doubt then? Have you settled like a conquered nation into the bosom of your self pity, like a wallowing in tears or mud and crying about crying and crying about the filth. Have you decided to surrender to a limitation you made, and accept yourself as all you can be under said limitation. Have you really decided that you can’t?

If so you might as well shuck off the mortal coil now, for all the good it will do you from here on out. Life lived under this belief of can’t is no life at all in both yours and mine opinion. Thus you have allowed yourself to die, and still walk around as if you aren’t. This is such silliness I would rather you toss yourself off a bridge rather than wallow in such a wretched display.

And yet, I would rather you not. You see I know you. I see how you live your life. You assume laziness or lack of will leads to this path of can’t but I know better. You walk around going through the motions all the while you remain a person in mourning, for yourself.

I know you. You remain a beautiful intelligent self. You endeavor to always see and change for beauty. For the better. For the love you give. What you love you try and become. What you want is not own things, materialistically, but to absorb them into your being like osmosis, because you know if you walk away without something of them to hold on to, the memory will slip away. You own to imprint, not cage.

You are not greedy or selfish or conniving. You worry the idea of misconduct between teeth and tongue and moral code.

You seek knowledge above all else because that is something you can keep, find beautiful, and instantly apply. Like manifestation. You are wholly wonderful, you see your self growth, watch your being change, you embrace all things about yourself even if it is stubbornly etched there in psyche for years, you exorcise it and transmute it and find it lovable. You believe in all beliefs and none.

You find yourself tickled by things you say and do and love. You reflect this in others and love them their self owned pieces of you. You hear your own negativity and indulge in fits of tantrum only to walk away forgetting it completely minutes, hours, days later. And you smile and congratulate yourself on your victories small and great. You even find pleasure in your machinations.

You are what you seek. You are glory incarnate. You are capable and able and talented and worthy. You see yourself through another’s eyes before your own. You forget it is not them seeing you, but you seeing you through the reflection. You second guess and attempt for better each time. You embrace your tears, flee your pain until you remember its better to accept, you ever and always love.

I know you. I am you. I see you. And can’t is not a word you want to apply. Can’t is the word you use to put up barriers so you forget there is more ahead. Can’t is the word you would replace, were you to hear it fall from another’s lips, you would want to chastise and uplift and advise, were it another. Can’t is the word you enchain yourself with. You mourn not your death but your freedom.

And I would say I can’t allow it but I refuse to use that word nor place it on you, even as you are me, even as we are, and this is a conversation with myself. I allow you the choice to use it henceforth. But I challenge the necessary of this action. Why need you say you can’t? Why need you an excuse to not be more? Why need you this limitation? How does telling yourself you can’t serve you?

Beloved I love you. I can’t imagine not. And yes I can. I can imagine not loving you, not loving me, because we have before. And walking the path of self hatred, of self fear, is not the path you know now. Self love is won. I choose to love you. You choose to love you.

This is the choice. Fear or Love.

You can.”

‘a bio’, and ‘why I write’

I was 8 years old when I decided to stop playing with toys and realized the need for a substitute. Until then, my play had reached soap opera status, the little plastic horses in the little plastic stable which were among my prize possessions had taken on a life of their own. There was drama and back story and each session of play would continue the melee.

And one day, I had this thought, that soon I would stop playing with toys. Suddenly I felt as if it were a boring activity. That there was too much limitation.

And so I thought about it for a few weeks, and I thought very hard, of options to replace toys. And I discovered books about the same time I discovered day daydreaming. And the books which captured me were a series of 7, followed by a series of 8 after it. They were thin books, soon I could read them all in a week. Today, I could read them all in a day. But they captured my imagination,  and woke a love of reading and of romance, which had been a single thread through the books that I was quite taken with. And soon I began to wonder if I could just be rid of the need for a medium. After all, why would I need toys which were limited to shape and form and caricature, if I could simply imagine them as anything.

Thus I made rather appropriate use of the designation imaginary friend. Which soon became plural. Soon, a little tiny wagoneer and his wagons full of wife and brood, were reoccurring visitors, as was the girl who could only walk on shadows, who I often played with while in the car. And the only friend who remained attached to physical form was Buster who was my best friend.

Buster, I’ve written about him before in various self dissecting variations, remains to this day my first heartbreak. He was made of a black cat form, beans in his round paws to weight them, and little orange embroidery in his years and orange colored eyes and an orange bow. He was a Halloween cat.

I loved him at first sight. He was in the rather expensive thrift store which sold baby clothes that was near our new house, sitting on a shelf behind the counter. I remember my mother wouldn’t buy him, but helped me save for him. I remember i wasn’t even high enough to reach the counter when I emptied by piggy bank for his purchase. And when I took him home, because my mother didn’t approve if Halloween, the first thing I did was change him. I recolored his eyes, I sowed over his ears, I rid him of the Halloween orange bow. And then he was safe to love, and love him unconditionally I did.

And toys were played with less and less, and the in not at all, but my imaginary friends and Buster remained. Buster, who was imaginary and not at the same time, physical toy, and voice in my head which I knew was under my control, but I imagined not. Buster who was still was a real person to me. He was my conscience, sometimes, in fact usually he was the devils advocate to any venture of mine. He often urge me to do things which were wrong too, in the interest of making mow happy. I was a very well behaved child, too behaved at times, and it was a nice release of that control to allow myself to follow his directives on the occasion.

It was when I lost Buster that toys and imaginary friends of the kind I imagined I could see disappeared. My mother and stepfather went through a divorce and for a while he had custody. Then, with the court ruling, I was returned to her, and my sister stayed with him. And Buster was left on a pile of clean clothes and was forgotten in a rush of event unpredictable and extreme. And after that I didn’t play with toys again. Nor did the imaginary ones show up. I think the wagoneer might have bid me good bye, and I k own the girl who could only walk on shadows still runs about Portland Oregon in the rain. But they never visit me.

However the need for play didn’t leave. And I did remember the books and the daydreaming, and after a little while I found daydreaming was rather limitless. I could imagine anything, be anyone, have any life I wished, all in the privacy of my little head. And eventually people thought I was a patient and quiet child. But really, I was just happiest in my head than out. If I weren’t daydreaming, I was reading, finding inspiration for my daydreams, and looking back I was learning how to write.

I didn’t stop the day dreaming. I continued it far into my teens them twenties saying I would stop soon, but never managing it. In my head I would play out an imagining staring me and I would imagine it being the reality and this world the dream. And nothing ever came true but I never stopped believing that owned way something would, and even if it didn’t, while I was there in the daydreams, in the books, I was happy. More happier than I’ve ever been here except when in the throes of love.

I realize now, I am selfish. That’s why I write. Its not because I want to share with the world or make loads of money or get in the history books. If I do get famous I want it to be under alias. Its because I’m older now and I don’t really remember the daydreams they way I used to. And words better capture them anyhow. And I’m actually good at it, after the years of being buried in between the pages.

ghost talker

i was seeking you.

in the forest i found a well, a deep yawning into the earth, and with trepidations tripping tattoo heartbeats i dove, from hell into hell. perception

i met the white stag at the well wall, where the stone meets the earth and the wall melts away into a passage below, a dip down deep, and i kept a hand upon the animal’s back, fingers fastened in fur, as he did guide the way.

i came down to the river, spirit stag at my side. it was wide and wet, watery. blue and dull gray it churned into darkness of indigo beneath the first feet of it, and i did not dare to wade.

there was not boat to cross it on, and there was a raft-like bridge. it did bounce upon the water like so much as a leaf upon a pond, and it did not feel steady beneath my feet, and it did not feel of the water’s spirit for it did not converse with me, although sister water does indeed enjoy our talks habitually.

across the river there was a stream, it meandered in muted motion to the holes in the cavern, in the rock, where neither did the rocks speak, but neither did they before. however the water drug my gaze; my attention fastened upon that very pinpoint of a passage, it grew, until i could walk through it side by side with my guide, his antlers slightly scraping stone the way through.

the other side was a great expanse, it opened into an islet of greenery; of forest and waterfalls, and a sun which was incongruent with where we were on the physical plane, leading to the conclusion: we were not on the physical plane.

i was seeking you.

you met me at the gate, where the trees stood like boundary and the sea languidly lapped where sand met the roots that dug down deep. you met me, looking like I’d never seen you, and you smiled, holding a fire aloft, as if you needed it to light your way, despite the light like day of the sun.

i followed you. we did not speak. and i wondered if you were quiet because you did not wish to see me or if it was because the beauty of the place would be disturbed by so crude a thing as words were. and at the waterfall my thoughts about this were stolen by the sound of the roar, and i felt the spirit of sister water here, so sweet, as if it were the purest essence of herself that remained, and i realized why you didn’t speak.

there was not call for words. words remain what we do to communicate, in aid of seeking what we seek, which when broken down to ultimate goal, becomes the thing we define as love. here, love, as comprehensible as what i could possibly imagine, and fathoms farther, was already here. and i was not unhappy, nor did i want, nor did i seek, nor did i need. and you were here. and i was with you. and we walked past the waterfall, into the sun’s heat.

brother sun was bare against the sky. it was as if in his nakedness he was more glorious than mere thought could produce in present viewing when above. brother sun was not the harshness of power and light as we saw him, nor the source of the life we enjoyed, not here. here in his nakedness i finally saw him, and it did not hurt to look upon his brilliant form, and it did, for it broke understanding upon the wall of my ignorant way, and i finally realize why i was born under the light, and not under another lamp of totality.

i was seeking you. i remember coming here with a yern in my heart; a sadness collected behind my eyes, and in my dry lips, and behind my throat. i remembered a losing of you. and i remember a mourning. i was seeking you when i came here. and when i found you. there was no joy of a finding because i was never seeking you, i was seeking this.

we waded into the water of a lake. the trickle of the river which had seemed so ominous before did pour in here, and met life in sister water, in this spirit of water which was so personified as pure. in this water i felt lifetimes of health seeping into skin not skin but soul. and i felt myself like a sponge absorb the light of it, with my eyes on you and your skin wet, and your countenance brilliant in its glow. i had never seen you happy until here. i had never seen you smile. i had never watched you glow with health. i had never seen you alive.

i remember you died and i felt your absence. i remember i felt the loss as a part of me. i remember i wanted to find you and assume myself that you were not dead because of me. due to a lack of action of mine; of love withheld. i remember walking down to the river. seeing the shiver of leaves upon the coldness of sister breeze. i remember watching the leaves float on the water as you passed. and i remember seeking you there. until i was seeking you everywhere, and then i was just seeking.

but you are not lost. i, a ghost talker, who believes not in ghosts thought you were and sought you out, to assure myself in selfishness, where you were. but you were not lost and i did not find you. it was never you who needed to be found.

all this time. all this way. all this journey, from the mouth of the earthen well, to the trail of stag prints in sand, i was seeking a thing i’d lost.

it turned out i was seeking, not a ghost, but a lost thing.  it was me.

Trees talk to the stars.

As a kid, the November months were the best for me.

I loved the fall in temperature, the cut of freshness in the air, the leaves abandonment of the trees which made the outdoors smell of a sort of earthen nature calling to the Native American in me. It’s a wet feeling in the air, or a dry feeling, or a cold feeling. You must know what I mean. It’s November and it was my favorite time of year.

My mother dated Clarence for a while. He was a cowboy of sorts. Not the actual kind, like from Texas, but he did have a few horses, and a farm kinda thing, oh and a pig. It was in Virginia so I don’t really count it. And he had acres of land. Most of it was forest. Not like, Little Red Riding Hood forest or The Forbidden Forest kind of forest, but I counted it as forest. Instead, it had a lightness to it, a feeling of being alone, yet so filled with life unearthly. It was a sweet forest, a small forest, a hollow of trees winding roots together beneath the earth and foliage and fenced in boundaries. I ran around in it, at the age of 13 and it was my freedom. Otherwise I’d be stuck reading inside a room dark with wood paneling and listening to Country music blasting all the time.

I was only there in November, my mother only dated him as long as it took for her to be adored. When he got fed up with her temper tantrums and histronics (he wasn’t the sort to coddle), she labeled him the bad guy and moved us back in with Nana, who then blamed it on him being black, which wasn’t said aloud for fear of being politically incorrect but was rather like the prejudice was implied. Then again my mother had horrible taste and every man she dated was labeled wrong for something, so that was just how it was, and I really didn’t appreciate the racist additional, so I just ignored it. Which was my default for most everything anyway.

But I was happy there. I remember that. And Clarence was my favorite of my mom’s boyfriends. And I loved he didn’t coddle her. At the age of 13 even I was tired of her childishness at times. That he just huffed a disgusted laugh when she was raging in a childish way about disrespect, when he didn’t even in my opinion, and when she feigned a faint, he stepped over her dramatic splay, made me applaud on the inside. If she had just seen how good he was for her, perhaps my life would have been a lot different. I really liked him for a dad. He would have made a good one.

It was October I remember, just the first blush of it, and I learned to ride a horse, a stallion, even almost falling off I learned. And I learned to make a treehouse by myself. Clarence, I think tickled to have a stand in daughter, allowed me complete freedom. And I remember getting just the base built before I gave up and would just take my homework to that platform and stare up the trees and imagine more freedom than that.

I remember it felt, when I did that, like the trees were falling into the stars.

The nights when I went out, the sky was so bright above the sporadic canopy. I did mention the forest wasn’t really a forest, and so the trees did not obscure the sky at all. Instead it sorta highlighted it, like the trees were reaching out arms to the night lights above, and they were almost in a warped stretch, one you couldn’t with your eyes, but feel with a sense that wasn’t taste or touch or smell but something of all of those. And I could feel the forest felt like .. it was about to take off, into the sky, to be among the stars, except it never did. And it never would. And that was even better because the stars were in quiet communion through the expanse of time to the trees in my little sweet forest and I was mere witness.

One day, after I canceled on a friend of mine who wanted to come over but was a boy and I concluded might be interested romantically and I wasn’t cause he was a boy so I made up an excuse, one day I was out there and instead of sitting on that platform I walked the whole expanse of the forest between the fences that caged it, and finding a tree that felt right I put my back to it and looked up.

And along my spine, like fire surging I felt it. It was like there was a lightening rod, like the tree were a conduit, a shout, a string, that lead from the ground below up to the stars above, and translated the sounds of the earth to them, a tree translator. It was full of so much energy and wisdom and fire I was captured, more than a witness to a beautiful sight, but witness to prayer. From the earth through the trees to the stars.

Native Americans believe the trees sing to the stars and the stars sang back. They believe the trees are so old they remember us being made of starlight. I have Cherokee, Blackfoot, and Sioux ancestors. I am not a part of a tribe, or can I claim actual lineage, but the native american music (the drums, the piping, the chanting) has always elicited a feeling in my belly, of instinctive recognition, their stories a familiarity.

I remember my step sister and I would read a book of Native American myths as kids, and giggle over the explicitness in stories about trickster coyotes  having sex with women with vagina teeth and marvel at the creation tales which were so opposed to Christian origin we grew up being told was the only truth. We were not allowed to read it but we did anyway. I remember that being my favorite book, so dog eared it was, not because the stories were so randomly awkward, but because the feeling of the book in my hand held the feeling of November.

The sound of the words strung together were in English, yet still tasted like some Native American tongue, and was much like the feeling I heard when I watched the trees stretch up arms to the sky. I may not know much of myself yet, in this present state of ignorance, but I know there is genetic imprint of nature in my veins, and call it starlight, or more recent Native American genes, but I know more in my body than I do in my head sometimes. And I feel more on my skin than I see with my eyes.

And I dare you to stand with your back against a tree. Feel the energy along your spine. Let the tree channel you back to heaven; from earthen soil you were made in this body to the starlight from whence your soul came.

I dare you to listen to the trees talk to the stars. And I dare you to lie and say you don’t hear it.

Words Cannot Define Me

I feel expanded. Like my chest is a window into space, and all I am is there.

I feel like my body is a candy shell coating. I feel like I want to see that image created with pen and ink and color. I feel the need to imprint it on my skin and show the world the truth, amuse myself with the imagine upon image, like a photo of a photo of a photo. I wish to etch it upon this skin which feels like so thin a layer of existence holding all I am inside boundaries delicate like tissue paper and easily broken. I feel I would not much object to such a tear, for inside I am the universe, all there is, ever expanding, ever existing, always space and time and matter swirling in existence as space. Such a boundary broken would do nothing but cease the definition of outline.

I feel like my personality is a limited as puppet string, my body less descriptive than a single illustrated caricature. I feel those who look at me and see me, see nothing of what I am. And I am disgusted by the idea they love pieces of me, of the not me, and not the glorious I am presence that I actually am

I would shake them, show them me, but in all honesty they must know. No being as great as I am, equal to all others just as great inside candy shell bodies of their own could not know. They just pretend to not know. And so we dance.

I am guilty of the deception too. Of the pretending. Like I became a method actor, believing my owns lines, yet such comparison is so limited in scope. The comparison is nothing similar to the actuality of what I am and what I pretend to be. I have finally realized the game. I have finally seen the reality. I have figured it out. And now I want to laugh, even as I must respect the others their wishes to play out their part, even as I wish they were like me, able to see.

If everyone is such as this, if everyone is so expanded within their human candy shell, I must love them, all of them, already. It is impossible not to love such an infinite thing. Such consciousness. Such mass. For it is beautiful. I can only speak in my experience seeing my own self at such a level, through the window of my chest, but I must say, my beauty alone stole the very heart of me. And I know I am equal to all others such as me. And I must love their beauty in logical extrapolation.

When I saw this, although the image still hangs with me now, I was in meditation. I sat breathing in the taste/feel of the universe that is me. I still feel the breath that connects me. Its like deep breathing in the coolness of the mountains, among all the trees who breath life into the air together in symphony. I miss the image, it still hangs in my minds eye, but the edges grow fuzzy with the forgetting. And I breathe and the remembrance is strengthened a bit longer.

I have seen this before, I remember now. I have seen this image, remembered this realization, been enlightened  before, and forgot. All part if the game I suppose. I do not wish to forget again. I wish to revisit this truth often. Keep it in my minds eye. Be aware of all that is. Because when I begin to think the candy shell is all there is, my mind and thoughts and wants turn shallow. And I am disgusted by myself.

Perhaps I must learn to love the me that is so shallow. Perhaps I am meant to learn to love the pieces of me too. Perhaps I am meant to love all of me, even the human candy shell. After all I wished to be this candy, this personality, this mortal thing. I must have wanted to. This must be my most aching desire at present, or it would not be made manifest.

And so perhaps the game is not to just remember, but to remember and love anyway. To respect my own wishes to play out the farce and smile in the knowing of what I know. While pretending not to know of course

A concept of my personality i do appreciate is this. I dislike lies. I do not like the cage of them. I do not like the idea of forever pretending.

However actors are not liars, they’re children playing dress up, mockers of characters, creators of living tales. As are we. As am I

I do not wish to forget still, I reiterate and maintain this. I like knowing who I am, even as I find words cannot define me. At least I now know. All is beauty. All is content. And I feel peace. It feels like the breath I am at the very heart of me.

Simply a thank you.

It has come to this. I see it. Recognize it. Taste it. Dream it. Anticipate it. And acknowledge it could never be, or it could. But a part of me has begun the wanting of it. Enough so my dreams woke me not once but twice within a 30 minute period to just check and see it if could be possibility.

I dreamed of her. Or perhaps it wasn’t her. Perhaps it was another, but just acknowledging she and the idea had been in my thoughts. I was at Disneyland, and there was a woman, and she was famous, and actress, and it was inside a cheesy romantic comedy, where the girl gets the girl, and me, or the white woman, in an excited way asked the black woman, to face the media and “tell them.” And the black woman was scared, surprised, but a part of her wanted to. She was beautiful I recall.

Then not even 30 minutes later, she walked by me in a dream. I don’t recall the dream except it was her. And then I woke up and went to breakfast. And she walked by me, sat at one table adjacent, then moved to another, then moved to mine. Claiming too many people when I called her out on musical tables.

I’m not sure why but I like her. There is this liking growing inside me. I’ve had it for a little while now. The past two times we’ve talked I’ve felt it. The time before last I blatantly flirted. It was fun. But. I dismissed it due to circumstance. I don’t think being with someone in this time in my life is thing I want anymore, so I left her out as option from the get go. Then, the last time we talked, she made me like her. She’s … God I love black girls. The way they … their mannerisms. Their turns of phrase. Their lips. Their skin. Their bodies. God. It really didn’t help she is my fucking type. And she has the qualities I’d seek in a partner. Vibrant. A bit crazy. Possessive. Sweet. Loyal. Monogamous. And gay. Very gay. Thank god.

Today she comes out with more to like. She used  date a Goth girl. She used to like that scene. She writes poetry. Oh, this made my heart fall out my chest. She spoke one to me, at the table, from memory, and sounded so ..black poet jazz club chic. So colorfully colored. Like a part of a movie you’d watch about Ella Fitzgerald. Or, perhaps I put it in that context because she is so beautifully personified. I want that. Her. Covet. Mine. Yes, in my head words become brief and succinct. And I just feel. And I feel I want that. Her.

And no, not just sexually. But, in the context of wanting a beautiful painting. Or an artist’s collection of work. I want to say, this one I have claim on. And be proud to be so honored.

God I didn’t want to admit it before and make it bigger. When I cease the writing of this I will try and forget. I am set on allowing the universe to give me what I asked for in patience and open mindedness.

I might feel a bit of fear, but it is small at this early date. I don’t even acknowledge her girlfriend. Girlfriends can be gotten rid of. I also know I will not accept anything if she’s got one. So points are moot either way.

But she said she likes the way I talk. I felt the impression she liked my precise educated turns of phrase and way of speaking “like a white girl.” Yes, my ex and Koi had been much amused by that. That made me squeeze with happiness, for I recalled my ex in that moment, and the love of her flushed through me with the remembering, coloring the moment that much sweeter.

And she …

I loved her poetry. It grabbed something inside and yanked on it. Or more like reached into my chest and put a gentle grip on something there and just held on. I feel it even now. My whole chest aches like the tombstone lodged there is being disturbed..

I am glad. I need this thing preventing me from feeling gone. I feel like a shallow version of myself. The heartbreak has made me … Cold. Even if this thing with her becomes nothing, I honor this. And her. For bringing me to hope and realization and wonder.

This is a thank you to the universal entity from a place of pure gratitude. This is a thank you to her for being beautiful.  This is a thank you to myself, my higher self, for showing manifestation of improvement.

This is simply a thank you.