To loosen with my bare hands the wide air between us in explaining something of meaning I almost feel I am pulling flesh from the living and moving moments possible here.
It is somehow breaking the natural order of things to use words alone of all viable means in setting out the wind-waves and rivulets of ideas internally flowing - but I must try and get something out for once.
I circle in bad phrases prickling with the itchiness of sharing, I send out a few vague words horrified and perplexed at their translation now they are ***** knowing you too listen and they are at last unalterable.
Deep in the brain, far back this is my bad time but I know where the roots go down into me and from the storm’s heart perpetual agitation pumps hand in hand with calm acceptance. The self *****, alternately to fan and to freeze whatever doubts or unease are burning. Talk travels the spaces between us through the clear air in the kind of silence surviving bones may know swinging in a wind.
But I know stillness can become alive when living mouths bring their hearts to bear - ears can well hear what the breath has to say, as the eye sees the body’s smallest noises - face to face we are a field of listening.
The warm comes without sound. This is only the edge of a becoming. We are not trapped in the lips - already we lean inward to know of each other and to give not words for the wind but a dance at ease with all that flows.