on those spring mornings, as my wideness looms large, and I no longer care for the bother of shoes, with their tedious clasps and ties, I will waddle tip-toed to the garden’s edge and stare at the collection of haphazard near-creatures there. this overgrown and well-worn plot will have become a solace to my heart, which yearns to race and wander about, and which has chosen to remain steady and fixed here in this world with you. it is not abandon, but discovery which prompts my heart to rove, and so I seek and yearn for spots no guide has been. and yet, not so many moons ago I unearthed the heart of a man who is the other parts of my soul. in him is the stillness I fear and still cling to, and so I remain in body as my mind drifts at sea.
beyond the hedge, honeysuckle and magnolia kiss the air and leave a stain which bleeds into my daydreaming easily. a kettle calls from the stove and, heaving myself from the stoop, I’ll make moves to quiet the steaming. my favorite cup is a speckled ivory, and it stands alone in sharp distinction amongst the collection of blues and greens he brought in a box one humid afternoon. rearranging the teas like tetris pieces in search of a ginger which feels like home, I will dig into the corners of my guts to recall that first day.
his grey shirt was soaked in the armpits from sweating and I squeezed him tight there as he came to the door, absorbing his scent into my palms to save for later. we snuck kisses as the girls tucked onto the couch. I followed him across hardwood floors. my stomach turned as he snuck a spot for his razor beside the unopened hotel soap I took from the California bed and breakfast, and slid books into the shelf according to color. his heart and joy was on display, and twice while the girls napped he stole his hand into mine for awhile, rubbing his thumb into my palm and watching me close.
by now the tea was fully steeped and the sky brightening to a yellow, his favorite time of day. I will know without looking the sneaking steps are his, and he has crept to find me here.
your journal has been still, he’ll whisper in the summer dawning, holding my restless heart still knowingly. the smell the sleep and grease lingers on his freckled skin, and we pause between loving offerings so as not to stir the beings in the bed.
in the space between his breath and mine is the echo of a thousand stars and yet he can reach beyond the infinite to find my spirit and essence, silently sliding into the quietest bits of me to take hold and fill space. and so it is, against countertops as mugs grow cold, enveloped on all sides by the life we’ve chosen and given into so fully, that he finds the center of me and slides into it.
yes, I say, with fingers between my folds and rolls. I long to cry out that I cannot find the words and tell him of the transfixing, paralyzing glory of being the woman who fills his gaps. I crave the strength to push him out of me so I may more easily turn into him, no longer choking on the sobs which live in my throat, and scream that I was lost for years and years on a slab of rock in a violent sea which one day dried. and so I walked to the earth, a girl-child tied to my back, until I found a land hospitable to creatures such as us. and I lingered there awhile, making do and taking care, until one day he turned from hopeful mirage to realized being. and it was in that hour I stopped wandering with my feet, and build a universe in blue-grey eyes just mine for the exploring.
yes, my journal has been still for I tell my tales out loud now to a heart who hears every pitch and tone. I say nothing, knowing he senses wholeness in exhales. he coyly sucks his forefinger and backs away to answer the calling of sweet girls, and I turn to sip the cold tea of my dreams.