Leaning into the Afternoons

Hey, Love

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I’ll know you when I see you. I, too, need you like I need one good line. Just one good line could save my life, give me reason to be alive. Give us time to build something so good that we can’t see with our eyes, and be surprised when it’s our turn to die – realizing that we actually did most of the stuff we truly care about. Gave ourselves permission to be curious. Actually became the people we were born to be. Leaned into the harness of the dark and helped the sun come up just a few times without having fallen asleep…gave it no choice but to rise; even if just to find out what would happen next.

You would tell me that I’m clever, that I’m silly, and that I lift you up; then you would look at me in ways that I can’t imagine just now, helping me to know you were right. That I wasn’t just some tired, discarded object in this world. (Work with me here…)

I need Ray LaMontagne’s growly voice, Stan Getz’ breathy horn, and your whispers in my ear. I need an open window with a white sheer, inviting us to move in time with the breeze. I need a smooth thigh and a bare shoulder and a look in your eye that makes me feel bolder. I need a threadbare dress that hangs just so on your hips. I need a please on a young tongue and the bewildered catch of a breath like a song unsung…a secret for the time being.

I need the aching, the welling up inside, that says there are infinite things I long to tell you – at the same time I realize there is no real need for words. To feel that arresting silence in the midst of a boundless night sky, a bottomless wellspring of a heart, and the sacred mystery of your fractal-complex ever-changing eyes (making the question, “What color are my eyes?” truly unanswerable…not because I can’t remember, but because I can’t forget). Feeling the music inside me, I want to know that you feel that, too.

So find me. Or let yourself be found. I’ve grown tired and the days drip slowly on the page. Find me and I’ll tie your shoelaces to my shoelaces – then we’ll run. We’ll dress ourselves in scars until they match the ones inside, and we can trace them like maps to the secret places only I know and only you know – and only we’ll know someday.

Bon courage,