I wanna know…

Wanna know all the stuff that makes you up.

And yet I’m afraid…

of being thrown.

Out of my groove.

Out of the self-love I’ve worked so hard to cultivate.

Out of the self-awareness I own like the hardest damn trophy I’ve ever sought to win.

Afraid of being thrown from my ability to fall in love with the world as it moves me.

I’ve been with men who took that as a packaged deal right along with my heart.

Like keys to a car.

Like candy from an unsuspecting child.

Gypsy soul, surely you understand.

Surely, your free-sailing ship has been blown off course by a fierce female force.

This past week I felt my heart shed layers,

like winter blankets being kicked from warm toes in early spring.

These photos of somehow familiar hands holding stones in the desert.

Boots settled upon dry Earth…

Transcribing stories from inked knuckles and arms…

This voice coming through the line with dreamy thoughts of friendship and travel, cultural perspective and desire.

Fierce folk songs in between…

You come through warm and gentle,

like a fresh-baked biscuit in my lap.

I wanna’ pick it up and place it’s warmth to my lips.

Hell, I wanna’ pick it up and eat it.

But it feels so good sitting there.

And part of me is afraid.

What if we lose all those things we fought so hard for?

Because I know you fought for them too..

Gloves off. Soul exposed. Bottom of the barrel shit you hope to never revisit.

How can we be so sure of ourselves?

That we’re different…

That we’ll understand…

That we’ll stay gentle…

Allow one another’s freedom to ramble and roam…

Love and not own.

Respect and not subdue.

Do we dare find out?

 

 

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