page 79

this rose is silk-felt
and was touched by the red fingerprint
of a love so old
time itself could not distinguish its age.

this rose began as a rose seed.
then becoming a rose stem.
then becoming a thorny rose stem.
then becoming a rose bud.
unsurprisingly becoming a rose bulb
waiting to bloom.

for the entirety of its growth,
the rose always knew it would become
a rose.
yet, it has thorns on its stem.

if this rose knew of its beauty to come,
why feel the need to protect itself?

---so this rose could feel safe.

it is said not all roses bloom in the rose garden.
those that do bloom have no thorns;

a special few told themselves as youthful rose stems,
they will never need thorns.

the rarest few told themselves,
"if i get hurt, i will grow thorns, but i will learn
i too, can cut them off."

:::

2/24/18

dear journal.

look i know i won't.
and i can't.
i'm learning that the best love
you can give
is a love that respects
another love;

the love that brings he or she
ultimate fulfillment.

i matter. i know i do.
but that all depends on the matter.
and what matters most
is not me.

it's in how much i care
for the other to thrive.

i must accept and love
that i'm a piece of glass
in a stained-glass window.

someone else will be the light
that shines through the glass

in which its true elegance
may show.

look i know i won't.
and i can't.

---but i could.
and yet,

out of love,
i won't.

:::

life is a long pier
extending into the ocean.

you can walk out until you have
touched the last plank,

or you can take a leap and jump
into the ocean;

release yourself from the fences
and experience life

as a wave on top of water;
travel with whichever current

you choose. and sail.
further you go. and further you live.

there will be no final plank
at which to cease;

you will simply rise and fall
back into the whole at the conclusion.

you will have lived as long as
those whom walked the pier,

yet you will have lived a life
in a way that was infinite in its living.

---how brave is that soul?
---how curious may it be?

jump, or do not jump.

:::

persevere, as does the

dandelion seed;

wait for the opportune breath of wind

to let go of the fears

and the burdens you carry;

watch them sail away

twisting and spontaneously spinning

in convoluted turns with every

playful push of that breath of wind.

you stand, now,

as a barren, raw, stem.

your healing will set a field of grass

afire in a yellow glow.

and they will roar.

those dandelions will roar!

you can hear them now!

that yellow roar in your heart

is the leader of the pride

of whom you are.

roar yellow heart!

you are your territory.

you are your sanctuary.

you are your kingdom.

you are your dominance.

persevere, dandelion heart.

you are your own healing.

---roar.

:::

the compartments of my heart

were each filled with a piece of charcoal;

dirty. filthy. blackened

from rolling and rocking

and flipping around inside.

i had a miner's heart,

until You that is.

You did not do as i expected.

but then again, what is a true love

when it is expected?

You kick-started each piece with a spark

and turned them into ash-encompassed

fire-rocks. each one of them.

burning. compartment by compartment.

the temperature kept elevating.

the edge of tolerance walked closer

and closer to me.

my heart was incinerated in the kiln

of your flames. charred completely

in blackness that remained.

smoke was cresting and bending

over the top of my heart-space.

i now had a fire-heart.

burned to oblivion from the previous

state of having a miner's heart.

i did not realize...

all this time i had something

that could burn.

something that could feel

a primordial energy...

heat.

:::

do not listen to what i am saying.

keep those eyes attuned to my eyes---

how they talk. the direction they look.

no. i said do not listen to what i say.

the script i have written is

already written for You.

just watch. see my hand?

it wants to be closer. it simply wants to touch You.

not even seductively. it just needs touch.

it wants for You to respond;

respond to whatever i do not say.

move closer to me on the couch.

when i see your move,

again, do not listen to what i say.

watch watch watch! see! my shoulders,

my legs, how long do i look at you?

do i move away?

do not listen to me when i say i am fine.

i am not fine, but i am trying.

trauma speaks like this.

just hold me. tell me i am safe.

i am loved.

---i am loveable.

now watch. watch!

do not listen to what i will say.

if i release the tension in my face---

in my shoulders---

in my eyes,

i am taking a step towards healing;

i am allowing myself to heal.

i am falsifying ugly beliefs

i believed to be true.

all at the risk of being loved---

allowing myself to be loved.

do not listen to what i say.

feel my chest and stomach

touching your chest and stomach.

that is what i say.

:::

pursue someone

who makes you happy,

or

pursue you

who makes you happy;

love is not a chase.

love is found;

it is a soft collision in time and space.

love does not tire.

love does not bark.

love discovers without searching;

it smiles at its discovery.

it is excitable.

love simply happens;

it happens continuously.

if you ever find yourself tiring,

your pursuit

may be the wrong pursuit

to happiness.

:::

You were talking to me

with the usual inflections

in Your voice. Your usual demeanor.

Your usual smile. Your usual laugh.

i was talking to You

with the usual inflections

in my voice. my usual demeanor.

my usual smile. my usual laugh.

i looked over your shoulder

just once, unusually,

to see coffee

being poured into a cold ceramic glass.

You asked me what i was looking at.

unusually, i looked surprised.

made up an excuse. lied in a way.

You were skeptic but continued

with Your story as usual.

but everything became unusual to me.

i looked at You as usual

and understood.

unusually,

i understood what the glass cup felt like.

the glass was filled and warmed

by the coffee as usual.

You talked as usual.

and i smiled as usual.

only, i realized

an unusual-usual feeling;

the slow pour of love.

the recurring warmth.

---what an unusual moment.

:::

the last time i felt

Your stamp-stickered kiss

it read,

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