Something More Important

Now, I'm learning, with open books and pages black and blue for the force of Try and Should.  But something is more important.

Once my loved ones go to sleep, go out, sit down with a contained purpose, then I am free.

Then I read a friend who posts himself.  He is brave.  He rubs my soul and warms my heart.  Friction in admonition for not speaking myself into the world, and softened warmth at his expansive beauty.  More friction, less warmth.  Until I am expressed I cannot give him more warmth. 

Until I am expressed I am lost in cold.  I feel it in passing greetings, in leaving the cabin, in marketplace transactions, in calls to my lover.  It's the biggest threat.  I numb quickly.  I scare myself.

We are apart for months, but we see each other daily.  To share their debriefs of the day's events.  Social gatherings.  With some personal discoveries.  I have very little.  Nothing in my day is worth sharing.  Nothing but my thoughts and discoveries, fears and contemplations.  My life. Maybe some other beauty.  I'm disinterested and don't know the proper transition between his or hers and mine.  Maybe if it wasn't a daily difference, then it would feel safer, because less regular, and therefore normal and okay. 

But every day; I don't want his food, nor her exchanges of goofiness, I don't want sudden lines of love and can't take daily relations. Brain turns to mush.  Throat closes up.  Heart sucks itself back in and sinks down into my gut.  The muscles here are not strong enough yet to hold the heart steady, the throat relaxed, the brain open and understanding.  If they were strong enough, throat, brain, heart would have another place to go. A core.  I've had it before.  I remember.  But not now. 

Yesterday I dreamt in the day like a school girl.  Yesterday's eyes were hazey with clouds and soft light, and deep pink with vibrations that began in my sex and rushed to my heart by way of head.  Yesterday I imagined him.

Today is hard and hallow.  Today would stomp out cells and slowly grind at the periphery, if I had not learned, at six and a half in June, to practice steel and stone, steel and stone.  Today I'm cold.  I think I imagined me yesterday.  I can't remember me then. 

Now, In my notes in blue and black, with circles and dark underlines, I remember how to put things in my head.  Some oldness wakes up inside me, and it's almost nostalgic. 

Something more important has come up.  And it's too late now to forget it.