An oddly mild month January has been, warm like the head of a newborn child, the days brim with potential, flowing, yet tensile.
If one was so inclined to break the laminar flow, to seep into the brine, the salty novelty of new days and due dates and a fresh gaze, they may find it to overflow.
Potential calcifies when its spilled. Collecting over February, March, and April, crusting through May, June, and July, chipping at it from August, September, and October, casting your tongue on it through November and December, just to remember,
Under the maple, I am embittered. My resentment pours out in an amber hue, viscous like resin, my nimble fingers tacky against the bark that will one day become money-like to form bills, bills, bills.
Upon receiving, we may feel fulfilled, but its never suffice, to sink your spite, because just as soon as the maple loses its leaves and the sap runs dry and the funds disappear, all we have again is the bitterness.
I would break through veins and veils to have your fingertips on mine, on me. I know every ridge and curlicue, where your nail beds meet their tips, and where my skin has reached up to receive them.
If not for skin, pleasure would weep and trail so effusively out of me. Every cell and fibre knows no more than response. A touch so titillating, you revert me to an ancient form. Autonomic reception, an existence purely tactile, for the graze and grope of your hands.
I am blessed to be so complex, as to understand in both mind and body, what it means to have your fingertips on mine, on me.
I bite in, raw, with fervour, it dribbles off my lips and through my fingers. I am unquenchable, insatiable, panting, my hunger, thirst, ripe as a summer’s peach, but it’s a summer’s love that begs to me, sticky on my skin, nestled in my neck.
I want a love pure as a newborn and sinful as the dead. My teeth on yours, unable to quell desire.
With your peach heart in my peach hands, I take a bite.
One day you’re 10, and you’re waking up to the wet wilderness, putting on your dirt streaked flip flops to pick wild raspberries for morning pancakes. The foam soles bend around the gravel road, and you can feel every single pebble like the princess and the pea except you’re the king, the king of this very second. You let the silence hang, tight around your jaw, because even you know not to break the quiet of raspberry pancake mornings.
And then one day you’re 25, and you don’t remember the last time you sunk your feet into grass, soil; and I mean nature’s grass and soil, not some city slicked park with cobblestone paths and pre-planted flowers and stiff lawn grass. You don’t remember the last time you truly let a silence cling to itself, because now they’re “uncomfortable” and adults are committed to tampering them with pseudo-niceties. You don’t remember the last time you had a morning red with raspberries and not red from tension, from yesterday’s unresolved woes.
You don’t remember the last time you felt like a king, a god.
I could cry days for you, weeks, years. I could cry you a new calendar, a new generation, a new slice of time in the sky, salty enough, to compensate your sweetness, a place where’d you’d be the revered sovereignty, and would ban my tears for eternity, because you never cease to exist for me, as long as I can cry for you.
You watch lovers hold hands, but you do not see the subtle thumb caress, the electricity between their shoulders, the stolen glances of knowing among two.
You listen to someone speak of their person, seemingly over-the-top professions of love, but you do not hear the song in their head when this person is around, the bells and harmonies, the ringing and pulsating, the energy of the other in the air.
To view love as an outsider, is like asking a poet to write with no muse, like asking someone to experience joy for you.
To be in love, is to be fulfilled from the scraps of mortality, for the everyday to become highly personal, to move through life, through love.
The idea of men, of manhood, the way it tasted in my mouth, gagging on my pitiful fortuned future, one where a man with a hairy chest and no room in it for me, was what to desire, so I learned to choke back my own, believing a life without love, a throat full of thirst, was my white flag.
So don’t tell me you always knew, because for a long time I didn’t. I held in my mouth the dripping inkling that i was meant for a woman all along. But the delectable nectar, the joyous certainty, was far too sweet to spit out.
Does time work against you? Is it time that slowly devours your flesh, ages your skin, shrinks your brain? Is time the silent killer, the morbid pessimist, the reality check that you are far from indesctructible? Are you ok with that, an immovable force dictating you?