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.

You Know What I’m Thinking, But This Isn’t What You Think

This is not a love story. 

This is not a poem, or a novel, or a song. I don’t know what it is but it is none of those things. 

What this is, though, is a collection. A collection of explanation, and occasionally some apologies.

Like how I am sorry that when I am with you I often can’t speak because the words in my mind don’t come out as smoothly as they are thought, and how my tongue trips over them. They are prisoners running and running and slamming hard into my teeth; getting caught. And when I kiss you I’m trying to release them and I hope that these words run through your bloodstream and that you understand and when I bite your lip I’m trying to get the residue of the vowels out of my mouth before they become to sweet and let me rot. 

When you question me for how I look at you and I tell you it’s nothing, follow your gut. You know what I’m thinking. I’m sorry I lie. I can’t handle the truth. You know what I’m thinking. I’m afraid it’s too much, that it will come down like a tidal wave and we will not be strong enough breakers. I’m sorry I’m not afraid to feel but that I am afraid to speak. I’m sorry there is any fear in me at all, and if I can console any hurt let it be that I also feel safe. With you. 

For every time I pick a fight, know I am picking you. For every time I am short on words, on breath, on life – understand that I sing to the fucking moon every night you are not with me hoping that one day I will make it up to you because I am not lacking in determination what I am lacking in courage.

And while the moon is encouraging others, I praise every cloud that crosses the sky because I don’t want you to see me for what I am, and I am jealous of every ray of light that gets to touch you in place I cannot, when I cannot. And it’s so sadistic that I love that you’re broken but the thing is I don’t think you’ll cut me up. Despite your warning label you’ve been an emollient to yourself and your rough edges have been smoothed out. I want to drink you up like too much of a good thing, I think that would be the best way to go. 

When I wake up in the morning I don’t think about how lucky I am. I don’t think about how handsome you are or that I want to touch your hip. I think about how soft your eyes feel on mine and how this is the one thing I never dreamed of and the one thing I never want to lose.

Am I doing this right yet? I’m sure it isn’t a love story. 

Cultivating

the rain said do no worship water
no whisper of wants can stop
the mad man in the sky as he shows
the moon he gardened screaming love
into sleepy and delirious lies
tonguing the life from girls as if
they are milk and honey
languid men licking sweetly from springs
her dreams swim through, black and smooth
but now trudge drunk and lustless and raw
beneath him we were aching with death and
reality, preaching to the moon and remembering
do not worship water, we can drown
we can float