I’ve never been one for belief. Preferring, since I first found words, the question. But you suggest an answer now. Something permanent and waiting. As if there might be gods and fates whispering, a place and time of return.
I would know you anywhere. In a room filled, or across vast, empty spaces. Even when I’m not looking for- … I somehow seek to find you.
Perhaps. Perhaps. We are indeed part of something greater. An entire universe found in our kiss hello. Sliding lips remembering. The familiar that comes from knowing.
(Perhaps I’ve lost my goddamn mind.)
There is always the first time someone lets you down.
Always the first wound, and even if they tend to that wound after, even if they do everything to make up for what they inflicted, it’s hard not to hold on to that very first time. The first time you were a bright spark of hope, and the person who lit you up looked at your light, and asked you to lay down your torch.
There is always the first wound. It remains where it formed; it remains locked deep under the skin. Scar tissue is never as supple as that which it replaces.
(How hard it is to undo our mind once we believe something to be true. Once we’ve committed to an idea. Even when it’s the most damaged idea we’ve ever had).
You will always remind this girl of salt and tears.
In times to come. When her body remembers.
(Her body always remembers you)
I can tin-plate my skin and heart against your impact, but always the cracks appear. Always, this slow shattering when the moon is full, or the sun is blinding.
It happens when I close my eyes. Or when I open them under water, or when I stand in the earliest morning, all surface and rain and disappearing.
All of the forgetting, and weights falling. As I dive back into the void.
(Loving you so often feels like letting go)
~ Kobi Yamada
Some will have days, or moments.
I had you.
2014. The art of letting GO.
Image credit: Joanne Piechota
It is not a small love.
It is a big, messy, wild love. It is moss and thicket, and forest floor. It is tangled vines and surviving light, and the shocking red of a determined flower. It is a love that has always grown best in the dark.
It is not a polite love.
If the heart is a fist, this is the punch it delivers. A love that sinks ships then trawls them for their treasures, a love that will search every room to find what lays beating deep in the chest. It is a love that never stops seeking a truth that is hidden.
It is a love that is tender and generous, still.
A love that reaches at five am, that finds its expression in the dusty light and drowsy touch of morning storms. A love made from the heaviest air and an opening sky. It is a love that rains down for days.
This love that sheds its skin a hundred times – and more. Grown too large to be contained by the shelter of gods and boxes, and easier terms. This love that is mine
and was yours and is now.
(It does not know its time or place. And it bursts with life in its own conclusion).
“Ordinary life does not interest me.” ~ Anais Nin