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.

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

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