groke
“We carry within ourselves the direction our lives will take. Within ourselves burn the timeless, fateful stars.”
When I consider all the ways I’ve loved, none have been the same.
I have loved so distinctly—beyond my scope of understanding—it eclipses what any conscious consensus offers.
Must we think before we love?
My love is not pragmatic.
It is not hesitant or planned.
My heart is aligned with the stars that hang a little lower, just enough to graze with the tip of a finger I’ve wet first so I do not feel the burn.
It is damp in the jungle and its stickiness coats my heart and I have to work a little harder to touch the core.
I lay on the cold floor and wiggled my toes to wake up.
I poke at the soft bits with a sharp stick at one end.
I watched a blue and gold beetle fly into the room and land on my shin. I watched it crawl up my leg toward my inner thighs and settle its wings under that hard glittery shell. I did not try to stop it. I let it wander.
It made it to my navel before it took flight. Before it could reach the heart space. I watched it fly back into the wet bush and as I looked out, I heard the rain and the patter-patter-patter of little wings lifting off everywhere all at once.
Photo source.
