It isn’t an easy world when it comes to the manifestation of love. You are right to open yourself to the pleasant vibrations made by the strings of Cupid’s bow, but take heed and be careful… not all doors are ready to open. Not all shells house perfect pearls. So manifest your love and dreams, all the while treading carefully through the thorny brambles of forests recently burned. Not all who want to love are ready for a never ending ecstasy blessed by the great Aphrodite. Listen to your goddesses and let patience and clarity guide you through the burning forest and into wildflower meadows by the sea. All that you seek is already there ready, waiting for you.
Don’t you care what people say…
You can leave your thoughts at the door.
The raindrops fall in a single line on the floor.
So, finish chasing rainboys after the storm.
Keep looking to the clouds
They’ll tell you how hard it will pour
On your perfect face and down your neck bones.
No rain shower is like the next
And you keep looking forward to variety
But remember that each rain is…
Similarly composed of something watery.
Let the wind take you and engulf you in its feathery kiss. Let the sun extract out of you the pieces of your souls that need to evaporate. Watch the rain cool your eyes with its mist as you learn to value the earth below you. Let the earth hold you and let you take root. It is in the letting go that you are so lovingly held.
She asked for you to give what you could not, would not,chose to not provide. She spoke in hushed tones to the leaves so they could find and entwine her thoughts into flowers to bind into her hair—her dress was bare.
In whispered secrets, petals perfect falling down to ground that was dewy and refreshed so her soul could be newly found. She entered opal structures and enclosed her intentions with the hope that they would guide her ascension.
I love that about her, the way the little hairs behind her ears sway in the wind created artificially by the fan through electricity. I love how she sits at my feet while I read, silently about wastelands all throughout a destroyed Earth due to humankind’s engineering. I love how she waits and suddenly looks… The biggest brown eyes stare back at me with understanding and affection. In her mind, she’s the protector, the healer, the giver and I suppose that in my mind she is as well. My little wolf, with a little button nose that takes in the scents around me to ensure that where I am is where I should be. That little wolf stares out the windows with ears perked amazed at the intricate simplicity of the world around us.
I wonder if you spoke to the stars in the black sky, would they listen? If I were to confess all of the things welling up inside my chest if that would make a difference—maybe I’d tell them all of my secrets. The night sky blankets your eyes and your ears, yet you still see the flickering candles way up high and can hone into the nocturnal birdsong. Crickets are like a drum line, playing their repetitive beats only to be disturbed by the loud sounds of music of people who celebrate everything that there is to celebrate in life. I say I’m as black as my shirt, as black as the outside corridors and the broken concrete fences waiting repair. I am like my house, an unfinished product, a byproduct of cortisol and dopamine. Perhaps this is what melancholy feels like. The body still tunes in to pleasure, but the brain doesn’t ignite the same ways it used to. So this brings me back to the night sky… Why tell it anything if it’s too far away to hear me? Maybe it’s better to gently place this weight on the soaked grass and perhaps it will provide my resuscitating roses with adequate nutrition.
It’s doubtful that they ever knew how inside of you trickled a tiny stream of phrases promising without delivery an action that never arrived. It’s dubious that they ever imagined that the tiny rivulet would become secret floodwaters within you that one day would drown out all ideas pertaining to them as the surge broke down the wooden posts only half-blocking their phrases from the machines within your head that processed the wood into truth. Little did they all know that within you were compartmentalizations of them that became a burden too heavy to hear by the cabinets inside of you that held their weight. Shocked will they be when the contents fall to the floor and the flood eroded the wooden structure of the homes they built within you with your permission. Fortunate will you be when all that is broken is washed away leaving you with a clean slate to build your own walls.