I hate that I run around in unspent dreams, and the flourescent light in supermarkets makes me feel sick. Sometimes I want to surround myself in green and look for you inside of me. I want to lay you on the summer grass and prance around you, spinning. I want to kiss your wounds and sing away your pain. To listen to the ocean inside your chest. To feel you rattle when you laugh. To intertwine like celtic knots, to fade into each other. I trust you with all of me, until the last star dies. It’s a sensual and intricate contract, ours.
It was not love at first sight.
It was soul recognition. A buzzing.
We had to be two feet away from each other to notice at first. It was like remembering a song, once heard, impossible to forget.
My soul throbs wildly for you, with a shining white longing. You put lightning bolts through my spine. You are a libido awakening deity, an agent of holistic madness, a megaphone of epiphanies. Built of the Mediterranean, with olive skin and warm palms, and when you sweat you glisten, and smell like oranges and the sea. Your eyes speak of a remote cove in Greece, and tell stories of Gods and their angels, sent down to earth, battling human desire. That seems to be all you think about, a celestial battle of good and evil, of right and wrong.
When you look at me, it is always in an almost pained way, like you are straining to see something you can’t quite make out, or solving a puzzle with a missing piece. You are funny, with a full bellied laugh, that sends comets of sound around the room, that draws your whole body back and forth like a rocking horse, quaking. I love your laugh.
I liked the way your fingers feel clasping the nape of my neck, the way you recount your dreams each morning, with the same animated expression. Full of wonder, and far too easy for me to interpret.
I want to be your mythology, an unmarked map, a dousing rod for your inner battles. I want you to study my body like uncharted territory, tracing my lines with delicate cartography. I am in love with your inner revolution. You are a rare jewel, a strange unearthed space thing, carrying distinct light fragments of perfect pain and rushing pleasure..shining into you from all sides. Your madness transports people with you. I want to swallow you. I want to be your cosmic experiment. Your avant garde home, your ecstatic adventure. Your sweet, honeysuckle breath whispers god back into me.
Let me remind you who you truly are. You are an alchemist, turning all your wounds into fluidic light.
A temporary expression of human density, carved from fractals of kaleidoscopic light and fine woven gold. You are a mutant, an immortal, holistic vigilante.
Comprised of the stuff of stars and carrying the chic, worldly exuberance of important pain.
You heal through mischief and the fabrication of dreams.
You are a seance at the Madonna Inn.
You are a dictionary of nonsense words and a tapestry of surrealist mythical creatures.
Chorales of angels chant your name while you sleep.
You have secret allies behind the veil.
They laugh at all your jokes and clap for all your mistakes.
Your world is opening up.
You are blooming and all of matter is calibrating in your favor.
You are a spectacular miracle, the most imperfectly perfect version of yourself to exist in all of time and all of space. You are the symbiotic intimacy of all moments, sounds and colors, vividly experiencing themselves.
Your avatar is secondary to the cosmic, magnetic pull you carry.
You are full of wonder, High on hope, hungry for the infinite, and it is looking for you.
The giggles you make in rooms you leave behind, stay and linger and bounce across the walls like golden comets.
You are the gasping, delightful shock and abandon of a first orgasm.
You are the medium of the in-between, the mouth piece for the stars.
You are a paradoxical mythology, of gods and monsters and angels and loss. You are a festival of chaos and a church of bliss.
A list of irritating New Age excuses I definitely have used :
I feel like you are projecting a family pattern on to me and I need to go
I’m sorry I can’t do tonight I’m feeling really very psychic
My sound bath went on for three hours
I left the shrooms in a past life pair of jeans
Saging for you! Sorry I can’t make it to the funeral!
I don’t want to see that movie, I don’t want to manifest that
My yoga teacher told me not to
My psychic told me not to
It’s because I’m a Leo
It’s because I’m an eighth house Leo
It’s because I’m an eighth house Leo combust Venus with a messiah complex
My higher self told me not to
My guides told me not to
I can’t have sex with you til I’ve given you reiki
I can’t have sex with you because I don’t want to quantumly entangle with your ancestors
My vagina is a portal and I don’t feel like you are prepared
I was fond of your darkness and perhaps sick for finding beauty in it, because I sought pleasure in the ability to connect the dots and empty parts of you like stars, an Ursa Major of intricacies, of pain and incomplete stories. Unresolution. A melancholic absence sprawled out like an untouched, unfathomed puzzle. With delicate moments of light, gasps of understanding, clues of knowingness. And then darkness all around, encapsulating- seeking environments that made your insides match your outside, where I stood faint and misplaced, illuminated by dream. Dreams of potential. Dreams of too much knowing.
It exhausting being in knowing. It is even more exhausting trying to forget. I am the inbetween. I have made my home a corridor where I can greet each departing guest. Know too much? Time to forget? I love you. Know too little? Time to remember? I am with with you.
I can say the most, vile grotesque things imaginable when I’m angry.
And women shouldn’t get angry.
They should be soft, and contained and only whisper lovely things.
I am tempestuous and overflow with everything, with rage, with passion, with breath and breasts and love.
I am leaving and I am taking all of my magic with me. I have not shattered and I am not broken.
I want to say that you will never get to touch me again.
I imagine that the rest of your days you will have an unquenchable thirst, a strange tiredness that you cannot fully sleep off. It drifts you down a reel of memories and words unsaid like libraries collapsing in on themselves. I want to say that every woman after me will be doused in my name. Soaked in my shadow. And you will become dreadfully bored. The thought of your missteps will keep you awake, becoming itch you cannot scratch, and the thing you must have left somewhere. And you, my darling, will be empty.
And I will be full.
I will be your most important pain.
But to say that would be vile and grotesque - and women,
women should never get angry.
I left bits of myself floating in the Scottish highlands, residing in clouds and groves of green right before dusk. In solitude but woven into everything.
The days of keeping people at arms distance as a means to protect me from the intensity of my own emotions are over. I did this countless times, with the words I did not say and the moves I could not make, because my heart was swollen, clenched like fist, clinging onto wounds I mistook for character.
Sometimes I get afraid that if I become someone’s resting place, it will interfere with my freedom, my desire to live based on intuition and spontaneity- without need for explanation. My need to be constantly reborn. To be treading on new terrain. To have secrets. To be wild.
I find myself torn between an insaccepable appetite for luxury and a simultaneous anarchist repulsion against it, wanting to be deeply spiritual and simultaneously delightfully inebriated and away from everything. I exist in polarity and paradox. I need as much spring air as I can get. I am hungry for irrefutable evidence of the impossible. Language feeds me, and I follow it, like an ethereal fog into the woods, endlessly seeking for the words not yet invented for feelings that still feel foreign.
I am trying to anchor in heaven, at a sick time, in a sick place.
I am eager for new kisses, not ones that are bitter or half full. No, they don’t have to feel like butterflies, or fireworks, but make them lasting. Burning. Searing new perspectives inside of me that sediment and consolidate in the deepest folds of soul.
I have had a sordid love affair with danger and intensity that was once a suitable refuge but now feels heavy. I have always been half crazy, at times cerebral, bewitching and heartless. Impulsive and non-linear. I am unpredictable and hard to capture, because that is how water and fire are; incapable of being held, never appearing the same twice. But I am getting to a place where I have accumulated enough self worth- not from anything that can be taken away, but from the intimacy I have with my own soul. It is from this place that I have lost the desire to be numb, or on the lip of some oblivion. In all the ways I used to want to escape the truth and run from reality, I now want to run towards it, and be immersed in it, and go deeper and deeper.
You are wine, dark wood and stone. Mahogany and rich. Familiar and infinite. Consoling. Sometimes seeping out onto your surroundings, with a peculiar, animal yet otherworldly magnetism. Bleeding on to me like a series of liquid transparencies. You are a creature of strange and mythological beauty. The child inside of me likes the child inside of you. All the things I am terrified to say to you, I whisper to the stars, in hope they will relay my quiet messages.
They couldn’t tell the angels they were angels when they left them here. Those were the rules.
Instead, they left clues. Clues obtained in moments of love- because those were the most angelic resonances. The resonances of remembering.
Moments of love were easy to hide clues in, because there was an air of invisibility, you couldn’t see it or smell or touch it, but you knew it was there. Sometimes the clues were like computer codes, in the eyes of another, or in a long sensual embraces. Some were even written in the sky, in crayola sunsets with clouds like pink cadillacs and lilac wishes.
Sometimes there were clues in the words of friends, who could see you better than you could see yourself.
Some angels smoke parliaments and only wear leather, light up at the sight of puppies and are overconcerned with the well being of stray cats. They have skin like alabaster and silver, and jade eyes that speak of the sympathy of the forest. Some think in pairs of people and only came here to love. They have all the jokes and smell like diptyque candles.
Some angels are made of old hollywood movies and cowboy boots. Watching them is like watching a black and white movies, they move like chorales of ghosts and dance on sidewalks. They cackle like candles cracking, and shed salt water tears in your forest bed. They are fearless. When they smile the room smiles with them, and your heart expands fifteen inches further. These angels are seekers, and ask all the right questions. If you are super lucky, these angels will live next door.
Some angels collect dogs and johnathon adler ash trays. These are the wisest of all the angels, and can parachute their consciousness out to fill homes and offices and entire cities. They channel elaborate french cooking and see the highest future versions of people, even when they can’t see it themselves. They save lives many times over. These types come from the sea but understand desert gardens, they are cosmic libraries and curators of perfect moments. They give out of themselves and sometimes have blue hair. They are sparkle fairy princesses dressed in black cashmere.
Some angels are elven tattoo clad boys, who assure you of your powers in the darkest hours. These are rare- and you have to hold on to them- because at any moment they might shoot back to space. They drive white mazdas and set doves free. They will take you on journeys above time and make the best camping partners. They are cosmic inventors and dream actualizers, architects of alien intel and visionaries.
Some angels have as many freckles as stars, and wear back braces. These are the oldest angels but come disguised as teenage girls. They complain about being taller than most boys, but old angels need tall bodies. They wear converse and pajamas, and you can’t really take them to restaurants because they knock things over, put silverware in the tea candles, and scribble alien symbols on the tablecloths- because they are half here and half in the astral, mending broken hearts. They feel everything in every room, and glow at a slightly inhuman frequency, even when making silly faces. These ones are wickedly beautiful, and equally unaware- but thank goddess for that, for their souls manage to seep out and overflow, blind to the subtleties of it’s immaculate container.
Your very best days will start and end with these angels.