Diving under

Sometimes we are like water bugs/ skiing on the thin skin of a black lagoon/ teeming beneath with shiny silver fish swayed by currents of undergrowth, and lush moss decorating slippery grey stones/ Our consciousness but a figment/ A slice of orange peel in a jungle/ the seed of an olive tree in your palm, not yet planted/ To go to the heart of the jungle requires crumpling fear with a fist/ Planting a small black seed in fertile soil and praying for sunshine/Feeling your raw beating heart and entering a space between life and death in the eye of cyclone/ Alive in a vast and wild world not belonging to humans/ but to nature, earth, God, and wilderness/ and you so small. Then to find a way to return/ to the arms of your lover/ the warm scent of his skin/ an embrace that says I protect you/ knowing that this is love in words that do not exist in language/ polar opposite forces of the wild/ we become tightrope walkers/ to commit to this incredible act of mindfulness/ love and soul freedom/ squeezing against each other/ A magnetism that adamantly refuses to bleed one into the other/ not like the watercolour mind/ That is how we dive under


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