New-Latitudes

I wish I were empty To be so full and yet so fragile a porcelain grenade filled with the shrapnel that only time and pain and silence can forge My pin is loose I’ve been thrown and jostled and shaken and still I hold myself together I am so full I loose my pen but to what end I wish I were empty and this was just blank space

I am a starling, darling, Murmuring murmurations Of memories to fill my skies.

(Exhaling, Birthing the breath Conceived of Fear and Anxiety. Lungs on fire – They need air, I need air, But it feeds the flames inside. I am working on an exhale, Long past due …) (My Rabbit Heart races, Beating seismically In this tightening trammel Against expanding fractures Along the fault lines of my ribs.) (I am breaking And burning.) (This cracking – Maybe it’s my smile, Lately its been slightly too bright, And a little too brittle.) (There is Maybe written in the air, A hope for the next breath, For the flames to cool, Or at least be confined And not burn my Rabbit Heart Which in its weakness Or strength Can drum a seismic beat.) (I am a Supernova in a Tea cup…) “I’m fine.” ——————————————————————-

“Beautiful,” proclaim others of our blazing inner light. “What beauty?” We wonder, as it burns down our fragile house of pride. Casting shadows in our minds — forever noontime small — pinned in the cracks on the well-worn sidewalk that others tread upon, but none so heavily, carelessly, or so often as ourselves. The shadows change and shift — distorted images in the mind — a Funhouse inferno of broken bulbs and melting mirrors. We believe in what we see, giving power to Truth or to Illusion. This is the pitfall of Perfectionism, the danger of Doubt, and the reality of the hidden depths of the unreal world of Self-esteem.

In aquariums do fish dream of oceans? Do birds dream of far away skies in their cages? We dream of lands our ancestors traveled that our eyes have never seen - those explorers, homesteaders, immigrants and nomads - all voyagers and seekers, all mapping the story of humanity. There are answers that lie between shared experiences and memories passed down from generation to generation, in stories imprinted from birth that are eloquently written indelibly in our code that stay with us as we evolve. We are creatures made of stories. We are all animals with instincts to travel: to walk, to swim, to fly. Though we can be caught, kept and constricted, still, we are wild inside - rebellious voyagers and seekers, dreaming of places strange and familiar that we have never been. Whether we have gills or feathers or hair on our flesh, in the end, it doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t matter where we came from or who we are. We

Your raven hair is the midnight sky, The stars shine in each sapphire eye, With comet-tail lashes you are so fair, Your brow holds the peace of heaven there. The crescent moon is the curve of your lips, I pray ‘t’will never wane or eclipse. Your regard, I crave nightly; Smile, oh night, upon me!

Here’s proof that Eros hit the mark, These tender whispers in the dark, A secret, silken susurrus Shared between the two of us, Words that only the pillow And we know—and, oh! …In the fallen hush, A hidden blush… Sweet kiss, what bliss! Who can ask for more than this?

It’s a sweltering mid-summer Saturday afternoon, not unlike the day before, and the one before that. They are in their apartment, him in his plain brown recliner, her propped on the arm of her refurbished vintage loveseat, the fan spinning lazy circles like a crippled bird. Its thrumming white noise has been valiantly filling the silences, but wings can only do so much. If not for the pain, there would be comfort in the familiarity of the argument sizzling in the air. She said: “How could you say that? And in that way…” He stares cold-eyed and shrugs, his ice gathering shoulders, quietly burdened, are begging for an avalanche. It has become too heavy. Any excuse will do. She said: “As if it is mathematics, equations, not conversations, with your words like numbers, reducing everything to addition and subtraction—“ He said: “You’re doing it again, speaking in metaphors and surrealisms. You know I can’t stand it. What the hell is your problem? And what does any of it

Is this Alchemy, Taking whispered “I love you’s”, Gently tattooing Our sacred, {secret} names On one another’s dear hearts? The beat feels deeper… In each kiss there’s a prayer A gift and a claim— We are bound, not beholden, There is joy in not parting. This is Alchemy Of a romantic nature Perfected and true, All of our “I Love You's” Become forever golden.

I unwind as the stars roll down, let the inner child in my mind play with my old soul. They color outside the lines of their conversation. Hold the pen — it’s starting to sound like I have multiple personalities. Well, if that’s the case, they co-exist peacefully. They get along swimmingly. As a matter of fact, they have a lot to learn from one another, and a wealth of wisdom to teach me about staying young and growing older gracefully. I smile, silver lining in tact— it’s been a tough little while, but still, I color outside the lines in conversations with metaphors and levity. Thankfully, you’re used to my ways.