Be

It is this thing that floats and dives and invisible, springs  from inside you like breath, like color and sweet sound to scrape against my shell to open cracks where you leak into me; This thing that flows as I taste the salt of you, kiss the light of your eyes, the tension of skin on skin as my fingers brush down your back; that place you are.

It is this place, wheeling open skyward, the ground and life below, sucking in all that is to be in that moment; nothing past, everything to come;  to grab at the mysteries of  nesting  birds and of odd garden rabbits, to blow open all that is, to feel it rush like cold water on parched skin;  to penetrate and nourish and grow, this thing beyond knowledge of you; your open self.

Oh, crack this stone that divides. Unhinge my soul from solid earth and show the path to flight; raise the darkness, call up the sunrise and melt the chill; your soft lips and mouth engage, the liquid quenches; black to grey and grey to white; sunlight is.

Run with me; let the grasses tickle our legs and the red clay stain our feet with life; sew up the hurt, unwrap and be again;  to find that place from paths uncertain, to know the warmth and light and tripping uncertainty, stumbling again into one another; to stay.

A universe wide, flowing out; that place, that thing that we are; the mess that comes as we prod , retreat and grow; that wonder beyond the pain we spill; the love that is.

The unexplored, the unreasoned; the place and thing to be; sew up the hurt, unwrap and be again.

About michaelstephendaigle

I have been writing most of my life. I have written at least three complete novels, have three others started and on my website michaelstephendaigle.com is the draft chapter of the latest effort,"The Swamps of Jersey."
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