Sex, hugs and socks with holes

I’ve spent far too much time writing and spilling whatever drink comes my way.

Reminding myself every bit of mess consuming my aliveness.

Thinking about a celebration with the parts of my body that I had left years ago.

Dreaming of walking upon the geography of dissonance to learn what it was that

I was missing in every fold and every gap between every cell.

What I can learn from the first grey hair, my aching for many.

The desire that lives between open legs

and the energy that pours out hungry

like the ocean begging to swallow whatever comes near it.

I wanted to befriend the things that I could feel but could not touch at the same time -

to run my finger along the circle I drew around your heart.

I wanted to learn what it was during the times that I let go of my own hand

and why I feel stone-cold sober love is like learning to breath underwater.

I wanted proof of our existence in the weight of it all,

the topography of our being in the imprints that we leave to be dissolved by the next tide.

Spending most days sinking deeper into a quiet happiness,

in nonlinear ways of being

to acknowledge the parts of us that remain steady

through everything we thought might actually kill us.

Steeping into inner worlds

and who we are when reality asks us to soften.

Choosing to stop going anywhere else

but here

to realize that we are just as free as we allow ourselves to be.

- Words from a night of drinking wine under stars like I’ve been here before.

Perhaps because we have.