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,