love.

It happens sometimes. Our eyes gather up steam from the humans we house our bodies beside. There are the ghosts of those who claimed us first and led us to learn what we like and need. All of the movements on our skin are evidence of these loves and all the books read and songs sung and diagnoses and dreams.

Seven years ago, I took notice of my cervix on a small television screen in a clinic in Boulder, Colorado. It took many years before I could find the instrumentation of that trauma.

Seventeen years of falling in love. Each time different. Each human a different shape, gender, gathering of cells and stories. Each time louder and sturdier and what happens when you leave behind one for another.

On the day before Valentine’s Day on a snowy Thursday, I gathered up my ukelele and held my neck up by double-windsor tie. Took a deep breath and poem’d on the logistics of letting go and the memory of pixelated loves. At The Inspired Word Stuck on Cupid: St. Valentine’s Poetry/Music Show.

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