And history is love.

The greatest thing about having your heart torn in pieces is the beautiful stitch marks that lace over and accentuate its story, and hold it back together. These flaws, these mistakes, or giving too freely—to remember why, and how or who and when.

Scars are a beautiful thing.

OOPS

I forgot exactly how vulnerable baring your soul can make you.

Tally up another scar.

Get it right.

That's "ritual", assholes, not "routine".

This is a man-made pond, but it's grown out so naturally that the grass blends right back into the mounds of river rock and from there back into the golden folds of hills.

A big fish eye stares at me calmly as I trace my fingers along trout belly. He's removed the hook while I'm doing this. Without coaxing, the trout flips gracefully upright and glides back into the depths of the pond, a pleasant how-do-you-do, a handshake.

Hands on my hips, skin tawny under a noonday baking sun, a squint over the ripples left behind.

"I swear to god, that fish wanted you to pet him," he tells me in the quiet awe that follows.

This sinks in for a moment, as gently as dew to earth, and then to the business of laying the line out again.

Emotional Weather

heavy combed air

and all I am is
cat-stretched lidded-eyed
slab under cloud-sweat slather

The madness of being able to love your life it's that good.

sound for sleeping

so many heartbeats, too many to count

all thumping and thudding away on this earth