The first time I pushed you away was on a Wednesday and everyone kept talking about the sun and its entropy. You were not too wooden because I pushed my way through. As a courtesy, I sucked out every single splinter from all your years as a hummingbird and I think it all derived from that first time you noticed me notice you noticing me.
The next time was Autumn. Too much wine dove into me like an aggressive Olympian with too much spring and muscle. Is one ever ready for that kiss that does not need to be directed. Is one ever ready for the moment one’s body is accepted even in its pothole’d-caution taped-crime scene investigation? There must have been wind because you knelt down to pick up leaves, newly catapulted from nearby trees. You took a needle and thread, which you always kept in your right pocket, and sewed these leaves to me. Called them my wings. Told me this wind could lead me anywhere I wanted to go. I chose your hands.
There was that time we slipped on a rainstorm. The last time. We never believed in umbrellas or boots. You fed me drops of cloud blood and we ate meals of dandelion roots. You hated that I was a hippie, until you became one and you loved the knots behind my knees until you stopped.
Love never remains when fear is much stronger. To be ready for another, one must be ready for one’s self. These breaths are meaty and congested. This chalk outline has rusted. So how about now? How about this one? When do you really know that it is safe to take down the warning signs? To let go. To give in. To be at peace with an other.