You’ve got a way with me
This lyric opens the credits of the movie
I stream on my phone as the bus pulls away.
Carried from an enclave of friendship
towards my home,
touting in my latest memory
the difference between
being known and being seen.
The breathless leftovers
cultivated by the right presence
in the right hands,
at the right time,
for only long enough,
attune to the tissue of your nerve endings,
pulling the curtain back that asks
if body is also home.
If this feeling coming from my brain
is something to trust.
In my own voice I hear,
this is someone to pay attention to.
Skirting around tenderfoot movements
of socializing over connection.
Of connection that roots you in a mirage of yourself,
because it can’t see the footholds in your evolution.
Of affirmation that seems to confine you to an archetype of your least self possessed inkling,
because loneliness is too high a fence to climb.
Of maturity that holds falseness
within it’s fortress of beliefs
that the unconscious self work feasts on.
Of whittled down colloquialisms
into familiar exchanges of time.
Could it be that our bodies know
what will feed us,
given the choice,
can fast until their hunger
has time to hold meaning.
One that registers that nourishments
aren’t our addictions,
or our habits,
or whose hand is around to hold ours.
Maybe it’s something we have to seek,
have to learn to observe,
have glimpses of at a time.
Enough to stir us to come here again.
Aware that the best foods allow us
to never feel totally full of them.