My lips remember the tender plane of your skin,
The slow traverse and turning.
From delicate eyelids, down across your nose to the meadow of freckles, to cheeks flush and lip-stained.

A gentle pressing at the corners of your mouth before the red and raw taking; the sweet and wanting.
May these phantom kisses haunt you.

And somewhere deep we all know patience is its own reward, isn't it..

All day and through the blue hours of night,
I pray to the one who made you; body and soul.

I ask God to invade your spirit
To show you Love and how much you're worth
On my knees I pray for the Lord to open your eyes

So you know..
This kind of love.. His and mine- are borne of light.

My love for you surpasses even my own understanding.
Just as God's Love does too.
I pray through the night that you, Angel, may know it too.

Tough and tender- where there is emptiness there is a capacity for grace.

A torrent of blood pooling over, rushing around mounds of bone.
Power in all the love carried by cells into the ocean of anatomy. Like the water, we take the shape of all. Free-flowing, surrendering to nothing. From the unconditional, the wonder and understanding, I will cross these streams and let the currents wash me away into love, love and more love.

Sometimes I wonder if this will be the cause of my demise. I cannot fathom such an incessant desire to see the good in all things; grant nations the benefit of doubt. I am blind to all but intent, intrinsic nature, and heart. I create euphemisms out of people.
-Indigo B

And there are mornings like this where I can’t get out from under my faulty beliefs and tragic reality. I know but refuse to believe and so I hold this bile in my chest. I feel disrespected by myself and everyone else.

Ebb and flow do not exist.
Never a thing there was as gentle awakening.
For these clouds roll in without warning to knock this boat off course and tear the sails.

The shy and fearful, I. Frightful and quick to move at the sight of another. Cower behind trees and keep this head down low. Petal stained fingers, lips sealed shut by a pen in between.

Then there are dashing days. Walk tantalizing paces. Run recklessly towards absolutely everything and nothing. This daring gait. “Try and catch me, I ******* dare you”.

My tiny spark wasn’t enough to keep you warm, and you snuffed me out. Spark became smoke, and smoke turned to flame. Flame became fire, roaring and spreading among the trees. Now, do you dare ***** me out? You belittled my spark, and are now in love with my heat. Come, warm your fingers next to me and I’ll burn you like paper at 451 degrees

Basements are often dark and cold. Seldom do we find one set with embroidery, cushions and warmth. No one ever really depicts a basement this way; as a room of comfort. So when I was little, I wouldn’t dare go down there alone. Oh, no. The cobwebs and creaking pipes within the silence were too much for these wobbling knees. While a sister stood watch, I turned on every light to make way for whatever it was I had gone in search of; tiptoeing quickly as if not to stir the monsters lurking within the bricks.
As I grow older, I learn to find comfort in knowing that everything I fear configures only behind the doors of my mind; where I have learned to laugh and poke at monsters created but never named. And silence is quite easy to fear; leaving room for nightmarish construction. Basements hold the space for such creations that bedrooms hold too much character to possess.
Remember now, a transformative possibility. Run your fingers over cement walls, breathe steady against the still. Make this quiet room a harbour if you find one no where else.