Letter me

The programming is faulty. What I mean is all of a sudden my focus is about that .. and that isn’t happy. I said almost too loudly “Mom I don’t think I’ve ever focused on happy”. She couldn’t guess of a time. And I already know.

I’m right where I belong. I know I felt the way I did, and I did say those things. I said them all the while rowing my boat backwards into the mouth of that whale. Yeah maybe call it that, call it backing in. I don’t agree to run, but every once in a while I’ll just back in. The running I do, it’s saving my spark from floating without ignition. Leaps and bounds not creeping doubt. It is happening faster than I expected. So I am now expecting.

Paramour, it’s a legal term. Like they knew something I didn’t. Was I was just holding her hand as she squat for elimination? Who lives that close to expulsion? Who can paint when the hands are warmed near the raging frigidity of the discard? It is warm inside a house smudged and swept. Warm inside a new folded piece of paper with the name like Diane or the fresh wood burned smell of adult and accountable. Warm inside yourself. Enter the inner and release the smiling gratitude of quiet sleepy nights. Meditate in that elevated sun. Grace and lust tracing my own hand. Mind is still, energetically tracing. What is that tickle, eyes close like a hound. What light upon my skin.. a laugh between my fingers. Warm inside my newly sealed envelope. Letter me.. with grace and lust.

art credit : muresetivoire