Ayurvedic Alterations

There is a force in the arch of your foot that pushes you forward when you run in the sand,

a steadiness in the eyes that see the sun before it fully shakes the colours of sleep from itself into the sky.

There is reward in the ability to revel in starting the day with eyes a little heavier,

a compromise in times command to be more important than comfort.

There is a depth deeper in the palm that desires the direction of the earth,

a willingness that runs wilder in the palm that awaits the rain.

There is more truth from the tongue that doesn’t twist,

a likeliness of lies from the breath of shallow lungs.

I like to watch hands surrendering when mouths meet each other. Letting the messages unsent fall away, the thoughts in their minds recede. I like to watch people become consumed and oblivious.

Two Sentence Stories

She woke up to his heat, raw and smothering in pre-dawn hours seeming to wake up slowly and hot with the sun. Hearing the alarm go off she checked her phone and saw a calendar reminder informing her of his funeral that day.

_______

Running in a hard rhythm, even and heavy footfalls, irregular heart beats syncing up. Breathing evenly, two realizations come; my heartbeat is coming from my feet, and I am running through a graveyard.

______

He follows his shadow on the pavement, a companion on the nearly abandoned city streets. Looking up he sees his shadow long in front of him and the oncoming headlights directly in front of him.

Intent

I want to be touched with good intention, trying too hard to make you not want me. Not putting forth effort into being easy to understand, saying things like “I want to be heartless” without explaining that I just want to give all of myself away. I am altruistic in my absence, appealing to my need to appease people. It is easier to now make you angry than to later make you sad. It is better to to have no hook at the end of a line than to have to rip it from you when it is time to let go – instead just giving you the freedom to fall when you want. It is a graceless dance between grateful people, understanding although we may not move well we at least can move. Although words come out abrasive and thoughts may be ugly it is guarded by intention and I like it when you massage my head.

Fresh Produce

Kisses manufactured for any moment, feeling themselves unravel neatly on my mouth. Cookie cutter kisses.

I miss homemade kisses. Whipped up out of the moment – the rain outside the window, the laughs lingering in corners that melt from blue walls easily onto my open lips.

But I’m here, pretending to fall back asleep. The same small puckers punching themselves out on my pout, my nose, my forehead… Coming from a boxed set.

Transit Thoughts in Transition

When you sneeze I am suddenly aware that beside me you are having a 10th of an orgasm, and that the likely hood of you having the same thoughts about me as a stranger as I am having is high. There is intimacy in the fact that our legs are touching right now but scientifically nothing can touch. But even if that’s true electricity stills runs from lightning through a lake when it’s thundering and I’m curious as to how many sneezes it would take to feel that way.

The Reality of The Season

Summer legs that see more long grass and fence spokes than sun. More cool water stolen and sliding down shivering stomachs from dirty bleached out hair than warm sand sticking to the back of calves and shoulders. Skin coloured from bruises not UV rays. Never hydrated for all that is drank, every roof climbed helping you find your way to flying. The most the sun is seen is in pink and purple splashes on the east horizon on a 5AM walk home. That is also the most that is remembered. Husky voices, poisoned insides, untainted mouths and bodies that feel more air and rain than they do clothes. Leaving you more dried out than the remnants of autumn leaves, finished faster than drunk words falling out of mouths.

Not What You See In The Mirror

She thinks about strangers and the way they make her feel poetry without words, falling in love until her eyes fall away sometimes up to 100 times a day. Feeling as easily as sun comes through a window; warm and stuffy, blocking out the cold and the breeze. She’s a little more lost with a map, a little less tough with a frown. No rose petals falling from hips nor wisdom from mouths, no gold from hair nor feathers from fingertips. She is just the kind to tell you with such conviction that her dreams are truths that you start to believe in the religion of her mind. Don’t be fooled, salt water eyes will drown you not refresh you. She has a storm inside too strong to be seen on the horizon, no calm before because no-one ever taught her to be silent. Cursing life in the same tune she sings it, falling in love with strangers with gardens that need rain in their eyes.