Hair draped back
I can see the path of the brush
where it swept fuzzy sleet
away from her face
and out of her eyes.
The strokes echo in soft strands
framing my her face like fluffy waves
the way the brush intended.

My friend is not perfect
in the sense that she is not flawless;
but in the vestige of her presence
her aura is captivating
and is absolutely beautiful.

I babble,
but what I mean is the potency of self,
being without trying.
Synchronizing with the spiral center
and twisting like a cork
into and out of the trunk that hinges
her existence
in a way that grows eternally.

Essentially, the unconscious.

Free, I fell into it
and became one of those moments
I want to lightly pinch
when he said
"Wow, you're a good dancer," just as freely back.

I smiled - then stopped.
Noticed my fleshly shell
echoing with the reverberations of my soul,
and withdrew.

Tremors booming from the inside
seem invincible
but so intimate to the Center
they're more like
Night's shimmering water
whose glimmer always waves
but never lingers,
Just shivers.

I learn as I die
how to align to myself
and what congruency to one's context really means,
because it's not conformity.
Just as significant as it is irrelevant
My Own Ness has a spherical redundancy
I chuckle at finding reassuring.

I want to be heard
like we all do
But (like we all do)
only by those who will actually hear me.
Redundant, I know,
because it will happen as it will
But it's the kind of symmetry I think is worth
living for
giving for
dancing for
and eventually, dying for.

I babble,
as I watch the subtle shadow
of my friend's unconscious hair
glowing faintly in the dusty light,

But sometimes
I'm actually saying something.

Like snow,
a blank page tantalizes me
fantasizes me
luring me into the vastness of its grip
and asking
What will you do with this space?

But unlike Creators,
my art provides no function,
serves no definitive purpose
other than to sit in awe
and appreciate
the Art of Others.

It's hard -
I'm overwhelmed by the potential of
the unexisted,
by the grandeur of what could be
that I sometimes slip
forget
that I don't have to do anything with it;
I just have to witness.

That,
that space between
Standing
and
Wondering if peeing my pants is a work of art
is slick.
But as the place between
Stagnation
and Movement,
Sanity
and
Peeing your pants,
Grave is only achieved by Balance.

How unusual,
that kind of eye contact
we say we crave
leaves me cringing.

Unfamiliar eyes
stare knowingly
through my incarnate dress
past the illusion of the way I want to be -
   the person I want I really want to become -
and into the entity which I am.

{Gasp} -
discovered.

How unusual
Exposure
feels like something from my dreams
an alarmingly weird yet refreshingly natural
sense of deja vu
that leaves me speechless,
humbled before both you and myself...

I want to converse with you,
to share with you my illusions and incarnate clothes
but it seems has already been said.

How unusual,
I have nothing to say.

How unusual
that I prefer the silence.