I keep
Recalling my former self,
The rosacea stricken
Shy-boy
California slow-brain
That fell in love daily
Far longer

Than he'd been alive.

I keep
Seeing him,
Walking underneath
Those ancient Redwoods
With a CD-player
Jammed into his cargo shorts,
Listening to the Pulp Fiction soundtrack,
All the way to high school,
Not ever thinking he could simply
Ride their bike.

Time then was to be
Ignorantly
Reveled in.

Majesty was innocent
And tangible like cool soft-serve
Or the nylon of
School-issued gym shorts.

Awe, for some, was commonplace.

I keep
Trying to reach
His freedom;
The way he would feel
Without hesitation;
An open wound for the world to kiss
And to sprinkle its salt.

There is an art
To vulnerability.
It's precious and stupid and carefree and
Dangerous.

Really, to be vulnerable, truly vulnerable,

Is to be

One's own God, free of the need

Of freedom, knowing

It is there, always there,

All along.