will you still love me

you know that haunting stuff that sticks to your bones? the kind that taps into those deep soul diggings that we forget to see?

gatsby and the way he loved her is tattooed on my brain. i remember being loved like that, when i loved like that. when it didn't make sense but that was the point.

i keep listening to those words:
"will you still love me when i've got nothing but my aching soul?"

my soul's covered in ache & it wants to be loved. i miss mornings full of groggy grins & bare skin & arms that wrap me in safe. i miss empty bottles & gooey rememberings & midnight swaggers. i miss having hands that are mine & a heart that doesn't have to ask & eyes that don't have to see.

have you ever worried you lost it? that 'it' that makes you able to dream of just those two hands & just that one heart & both those eyes, and it's enough? i worry my scars are stacking & numb is growing and no one will ever be enough. or maybe it's upside-down & my numb makes me and the stacked scars too much.

i guess it's just that human sort of thing. my crazy will pass.

holy

sunday is not a day of rest.

but it's sweetness makes my head breathe deeper & my papery chest swell bigger.

today i felt that buzzing. not the normal anxious kind, but the one happy coursing my veins. the buzzing saying i'm blessed & shadow can't touch me. at least if i don't let it.

holy. i guess that's one way to describe it.

i think it was the reggae swing & her mic-ed praise & those clove burns. or maybe it was the extra lime & the gin & the ice. or maybe it was that bike & the view & the  moon. probably some sort of everything.

i remember those words, the ones about holiness. how holy is connection, how holy is what you make it.  that phD-ed nun knew, and this weekend i did too.

i guess sundays can be a day for gratitude. maybe sundays are for seeing sacred in the small.

either way, i'm lighter for it.

gold

remember those boxing days when all i dreamed was being known by self?
those days meant writing
strength on walls &
free spirit on wind &
independence being flag flown proud.

i searched for my box i'd pack my me in-to. i'd paint my lines so when you inquired, my picture'd be drawn & characteristics listed & my being neat & concise.

but then, these ugly months shredded paper box & flames ate up list & those strong/free/independent writings were left erased & forgotten.

that's why i couldn't see my me in those beer-grinned lima photos, & i couldn't name that girl blissed on those mountain tops, & my cloudy skull couldn't remember self. the broken me couldn't face old brightness, & past smiles became foreign.

then autumn bloomed & the grief set in, & the fallen leaves felt sunken & sad. i thought they'd take old me with them.

but then i took to those aspens inked on my ribs, but to the real ones with real leaves, & i remembered that they're still beautiful after they shed all their reds & yellows & greens. they may not glow, but they still make mouth corners curl. there's less of them to love, but that almost makes it run deeper.

even though so much of me has ashed from the burn, i'm still beautiful. my box may be dead & that list disappeared, & my me less clear, but the me left is standing. and standing after the flames & the storm is more than i would have expected.

i know the girl in the photos better than i used to; she doesn't have much to hide behind. with scars red & tender, she's the rawest she's ever been. she's been touched by the flame, but that's how she became gold. or at least she's closer to it than her brighter self ever dreamed.