A sign to come in from the cold
It’s as if we’ve met before, but then you’ve already thought that
Your skin lights up at my touch,
gently tugged goosebumps urged closer to me, and the campfire
A sign to come in from the cold
Lines cross, as do cords
Pictures flicker on the outdoor screen —
a classic tale of crisscrossed lovers over lifetimes, experiencing love, loss, and friendship
You speak softly
opening doors one by one, each a story, weight, and joy.
A weight your eyes defy in kindness that have carried them through
The weight of memory are such interesting things, for at times, they sit so stubbornly on the chest, refusing to budge and can yet so easily escape our grasp, a thought a moment ago now gone, then just as quickly they catch up without advance notice as the levees break and all the houseguests arrive
It seems impossible to sustain.
How can this all be borne?
Yet, hopeful presence in action is mightier than another’s promise, opinion, or insult
No matter how much they stirred and churned up the waters looking for blood, even if into a raging tempestuous sea,
human words are worldly illusion, not truth.
Truth is how we show up.
Truth is getting up.
It is persisting.
Refusing to submit to memory or thoughts of what should be or what should have been.
The questions in memory linger like exhaled distasteful tobacco
“You cannot. “
“You cannot be here.”
“You cannot enter”
“You’re not able to hold this weight.”
“No, that won’t work.”
“Why do you strive at such things?”
“That’s not your place.”
“Who do you think you are?”
As the questions puffed hang in the air, watch each letter fall, for they are just letters after all,
mere parts of words once spoken and once heard
that spoke to the speaker’s untruth and fear
of what you could be
and how you empowered
would uncomfortably flip the script for him
And, as often happens, humans choose to keep one another down, as if this was indeed in their control, and as if somehow they had any chance of rewriting history, future, reality, or any opportunity to ease their suffering with mistaken words misplaced & misdirected.
Lies that bring their bearers more suffering than they could have ever foreseen.
Still I doubt they know or can control as they siphon, shackle, and bind themselves with their tongues, pens, and clipboards of insecurities.
A reminder it is best to shred such people, memories and attachments as these lies are no more, for they never were
Our job is to lift one another;
To remind each other of what we share;
To remind of our shared humanity;
For me to remind you that it is ok —all of it — and you to remember to wake me, leaving no regret to linger, by a hopeful, sweet kiss.
