I wake up to it, like depression or allergies, fully realizing that the cureless can only be managed with hard work. It's easy to tell when I let down my guard; words drip with a glazed sweetness, the aftertaste of innuendo. Walk it out. Meditate for peace. Read and write less. For the expression that comes close to uncovering the truth will release a holy fire not fitting for families with pets, or gardens in need of tending.
The butterfly moves in a cursive flow stopping here and there to finish the sentence. What is not to love in such exotic grace, such weightless delight? Our bodies are so heavy. Yet one can't help but lean toward the lighter spirit of our borderless endings. That's how we met, you know. Barely tethered through text, a springing into an infinite version of self. To be that alive. . .
I still flinch a little when my arm is brushed. I have this breathable boundary, erecting and crumbling without architect or design. A very external event marinated and seasoned internally. I've had Husserl and Merleau-Ponty for tea, and I can't make any sense of it.
That lilting breeze from the South asks if I would change it all if I could. Smile to smile, there are no more answers. Yet eye to eye, there is no question of what I would do.