there is fire in a woman
in the words she utters, spilling like a river from lips that know pain and hurting and still curl into a smile that reaches further than her cheeks
there is fire in a woman
in her art
and ‘art washes away from the soul the dust of life’
and often i wonder what it would feel like
to make her body my canvas
let my lips write words on her skin that they could never speak
into the small spaces that lie in-between what i envision our twisted limbs would look like
there is fire in a woman
in her touch, at least i’ve dreamed it so
spent nights, half asleep envisioning what her fingertips would feel like against my skin
or twisted amongst my hair.
i dream of cups of coffee in the morning
that she’ll make me
only to go cold and sit half drank upon the table beside us
because they will never be as caffeinated as her
i’ve spent countless nights alone
with my palm placed heavy upon my chest
checking that the dull thud of my heart still exists
and i wonder what it would feel like
to have the fire that is a woman next to me
and i wonder if i wouldn’t need my palm to check i existed
i wonder if it would feel like dreaming
or if i’d finally feel alive.

I imagine that if my mother’s prayers had hands, they would reach out for me everyday of my life. Her prayers and the prayers of my father would reach out for me, covering me - in the same way that the sun inevitably bathed the world in light each morning. Relentless. Unyielding. Unchanging. An act of nature. An act of nurture.

Lately you've been hurtling stones- full force at my glass house,
little did you know that this is bulletproof glass.

Ran into the wind again today,
And somehow there was romance in the way the wind smiled at me or perhaps my heart was coloured in with joy by that ******* nostalgia.
I couldn't quite figure it out.
Either way,
There's no longer anything seductive about hurricanes and it will never again be monsoon season on the tropical island that is me.

You are no longer a hurricane wild and free- at least not to me.

I am no longer in the eye of a storm

and I now smile each time the wind blows,
a light breeze on the rare occasions I clamp eyes on you,
the hair of my memory ruffled, tenderly,
I recount how I used to gasp for air in your presence,
how the storm that was you snatched all the air from my lungs
and
oh
the unnatrual silence that would fall upon me in your presence,
unable to articulate the intensity of my desire to love you,
unaware of the fact that a birds song would never be able to hold a candle against the broken howling of the wind that was you.

I don't think that a bird whose wings almost tore at the ligaments, fighting so hard to keep up,
can claim that a storm of that magnitude was of any good to their ability to believe that they were capable of flight-
so I cannot say I miss you.

But I will say this,
there is no part of me that
will ever forget the violence of the storm that was you.
There is no part of me that now takes the gentle breeze for granted
and there is no part of me that doubts my ability to heal, fully, because a restoration has taken place in the parts of me that were left destroyed in your wake.

So I will say that there are very rare and fleeting moments in which the wind picks up unexpectedly,
and I run into you old friend,
you absent hurricane you
and I hope that the winds of your soul have settled into a song that heals your brokenness,
and I smile with an unshaken joy in my heart
now knowing that there is nothing romantic about a hurricane
but my soul smiles still
and occassionally when the winds blow
fiercely in the depths of your soul
re-read the songs of a little bird that loved a hurricane
and know that the songs are no longer sung
but the words have not been forgotten.

Oh when the winds pick up,
there is a bird who remembers the natural disaster of that human hurricane,
Oh when the winds pick up,
that same bird may sing a song of what was,
Oh when the winds pick up,
I pray that a song of joy and restoration reaches your ears.

Oh when the winds pick up,
know I am no longer afraid of hurricanes at all
because after you, I realized that I was never a bird to begin with,
I was never a natural disaster,
but instead
I was mother nature herself-
entertaining a love of a different humor
for but a season.

" You were cold and needed light. So for you my love I set myself alight"

I wrote that a few years ago about a boy that wanted to keep warm until the winter ended not understanding that I am a fire breathing star called the sun.
Nurture yourself in your light.