The power of being loved as we are.
Radiantly spinning around our own stars
born from the willingness to writhe and rise in mutual burning.
This effulgent elegance, this single branch
of a dream-tree long understood as essential to the unfolding
of a heart’s prismatic holding.
I am made partially of him, now.
Cells rubbed open by an unquenchable desire for knowing
of what we are truly made.
The words whispered in the depths of our mornings, mournings, moorings,
but a brush painting vague shapes across the ocean upon which we sail.
This boat made bit by bit,
each breath taken together a well-laid plank,
the lavish tears a lacquer against the inevitable demise of our preconceptions
into something that will wear our finish, but never break our bough.
This ship, made of every wish ever made to know the marrow of love
rocks on the uncertain certainty that we can never be more or less than our wildest imaginings:
that we can never be all we hope, yet that is all.
The undiscovered country looms before crystal-colored eyes,
and for a moment nothing is known
but the feeling of this heartbeat under my ear as home,
and the ground quaking to reassemble into an Earth where my island has been obliterated
and in its place stands a bridge;
backdrop to an unfailingly open palm.
Receiving the unending acceptance and unblinking reflection
that transforms shame into celebration,
that makes art of every fat roll, every wrinkle, every disappointment
and dribble of well-crafted cynicism,
that calls and entices and awakens me into the fullness of the shape love would invite me to fill.
Which is exactly as I am,
precisely imperfectly fully the me that sings,
minus the surrender of my brokenness,
and with the silhouette of tandem wings.