The hearts we seek to mend must first be our own

On some level, I think we are all seeking for that person who will see us and accept us and know us bone deep and still wants to be a part of our lives. We all want to not be alone. And the people who seem to know this, are also the ones who have the hardest time finding someone.

It’s like consciously trying to swim. You paddle your feet, you cup your palms, you move your arms but still, you can’t seem to really swim. Because swimming is a physical, in your body, thing. And you can’t be one hundred percent in your body if you are thinking about how to move it.

And you can’t find that person who connects with you because it’s such a complex thing that you can’t set up a situation or plan a life that leads you there.

You can only be one hundred percent your self. And stop hiding. If you are hiding, you aren’t being.

And I’m aware that sounds like bullshit but give yourself a free pass to not be cynical. Not be practical. Give yourself a free pass to be free for just a minute.

The only thing you can do is be genuine. Let people see you.

I can’t promise you freedom from pain or that some of those people won’t hurt you, won’t use you.
I can only say that when the moment comes and you are hiding, it will be difficult for the person looking to see.

Poets rarely seem to have happy lives

Sometimes you have a good night. Not great. Not revealing. Just good enough.

And on these nights, I think. I think, if I died, it would be enough. Not good. Not right. But enough, I think.

Morgan is long gone. Even her faintest echos are lost to me.
All who I’ve loved have gone or walked into their own futures.
And while I love my friends, you can’t live for them.
They have their own lives. No matter how much you love them. No matter how much you need someone to hold you in the silence.

Enough. Enough now.

Post script
I’ll take no action. Fear of the horizon and hope for what might be, will always call to me.

But really, without that spark of music, that waking, that breathe that is love. Without…

Find joy in what you have. Best I can do is ready.

Only my own fingers touch my lips

Sky weeps
Steady dreams floating down
Crashing against glass
Bleeding into gutters
Tears fall from gods seeing into hearts gone silent
Slow yet terminal
Audible pop
Hitting concrete
So tiny the sting
So slight
What distance traveled to die on my skin
What did you hope to be
Before you fell
Thank you
Thank you
I have none left
Thank you for turning the world
Into my heart

Nightmares are also dreams Part 20-Sara

I hear that tiny sound of giggle that only comes from Tara’s throat when she’s both happy and nervous. It sounds like hesitant bells. Like fear wrapped in brightness. I wish I could get up and go to our wounded bird, our limping fox girl.

I hear her light steps move into the bedroom. I hear Pel’s heart cave as he sees us together. That palpable tension of fear and frission. Of a Masters next steps, dissipates.

The sounds of whispers sounds like offers phrased as instruction. What comes next a mystery, but as much as the fear of the unknown grips my heart. The fear of what might be, I think I’m safe. I flashback to another night that I was given and…but no. This is not that.

The soft fur caresses my calf. Trailing comfort and warmth up my body.

The sound of a murmur that is just audible reaches me.

“And this, Mr. Fox is the leg of our Sara. It is soft but firm. She can wrap it around and also leap up with them. After her shower, her legs taste like cinnamon….it’s probably her soap, but I like to think it’s just her.”

The soft fur cups my ass, squeezing and pulling apart cheeks. Exposing the one spot of warm on the back of my body to the coolness of the room.

“Do you see this Mr. Fox? This is Sara’s butt. Pel likes to put things in it to make Sara squeal but she doesn’t have a tail….. YES. I have a tail, I am a good fox girl. My master tells me so.”

The fur works its way up my back, trailing the lines of the scars and scar work. Whip lines and the raven. The marks of this life and Pel’s claims.

Hair trails across my face, and I soft breathes warm against my lips.

Whispered, “And this, Mr. Fox, is my Sara. She’s sometimes my mistress but mostly my lover and friend. She’s mine, Mr. Fox. And you can’t have her.
But now you’ll always long for the touch of her body. Aren’t I nice!”

It’s impossible to laugh tied face down like this but oh, how I want to. It escapes like a a hiccup and is swallowed by the devouring lips of Tara. Making her claim. Our little fox girl. She’s growing up.