sometimes you need to remember how to love

An early morning sky resembles a history of love. There is yellow like jaundice, a bit diseased or perhaps an attempt at pushing out the infection left by another. It rises out of yellow and presses itself into blue. Mixed with bleach. A streak of orange which symbolizes the one that was unexpected but got away. Went away. Can one file a missing person’s report if the misplaced one chose to walk out of view?

A new way to make coffee this morning with alternative saturation process (suggested by magical friend). First gulp–because sipping is never an option–reveals a smoothness similar to the hair of a past love. Fingers always slid through it like a blond waterslide.

I know how to love books, poetry, the color green that can be seen on grasshoppers. I always remember how to love music, even when the words are too loud or fast to be deciphered. I can lose myself in the blend of instruments or hum of a singer’s voice slipping away from throat.

I need to be reminded the direction of how to walk. I tend to step backwards. I stop reading a book 10 pages before the end. I don’t want to feel like it’s over. Like I have to move on. I don’t like to move on. Practice the art of wavering; it eliminates the mourning process.

I can stare at leaves for hours. Or, Autumn leaves. The ones which are like mood rings. Hold them long enough and they shift color. Some are striped. Some are curved at the ends. Some have holes or are ripped or without stems. Some are so big, they fall apart when picked up the wrong way. Some are too small; they go unnoticed. Leaves are like bodies.

Blame the ghosts. They claim too much of our attention. The ghosts stick to walls and hide in the corners where cobwebs grow. The ghosts steal our taste buds, scratch our eyes out, stick bombs in mouth to numb our appetites. The ghosts turn off our alarm clocks, lock our bedroom doors, throw shadows into window panes to scare away our ability to walk away.

“i wish i could unzip my body and put you in there”

Out of one body comes another.

photo by Levi Lunon

Inside my left arm is a woman. She is tall and freckled and blond. This woman may play saxophone or harpsichord or the triangle. She has climbed mountains and a few humans. Perhaps she likes to whittle or darn socks or engage in various forms of origami. She has an allergy, but has yet to discover it.

Inside my right thigh is a man who measures over six feet. He is wide and brown skinned. Count his tattoos. Smell his mother’s cooking on his breath. He likes pants without underwear. He snores with his mouth open. His nipples are small like whispers.

Hiding in my belly is a another, with gender unconfirmed or blurry. This other collects beach glass and shadows. This human hides in movie theaters, eats sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil and remains until the credits drop.

Behind my ankles is a woman with an accent muddled and musical. She hugs hands and kisses poems into notebooks. She is curved like a weeping willow.

Sometimes I want to forget each human that has ever tipped me over, flood themselves inside me, kissed skyscraping structures toward my larynx. Sometimes, I just want to unfold. Reveal each wrinkle that has ruined me. Some of them don’t even know that I was in love then. Some of them don’t even know that I am in love now. Some of them have disappeared, so I carve maps into poems and search. And I search. And I hunt. And I wonder. And I miss.

There are other worlds that exist beyond what our eyes can reach. In these lands, sadness is a color that is visible. Love is food eaten with each meal like decorative parsley on plates. Poems are made of fabric, worn on bodies.

Gonna call myself largest living land animal.
Gonna call myself plant-eating mammal with prehensile trunk.
Gonna describe my mind as long curved ivory tusks.

I want to be called a monster because that leaves room for a metamorphosis to occur.