We made our declarations,
Felt the warmth slip through our fingers
And ask for permission to become a bit more.
Standing on the edge of fire,
You looked me in the eyes and said it straight,
“I hate the way survival feels so much like
running away from an arranged death,
Changing the fate of what is telling you it will come.
Sooner or later.”
I mull over your words, “sooner or later…”
It makes me wonder how
I never noticed your depression and how it can be
So handsome up close and freckled like a spotted owl.
Clothed in creative ways of relativity,
You are a twice-born miracle speaking in parables.
You are the sum of fire and water.
I cannot wait to taste your shaky mouth,
To swallow up your frown,
Suck away the nutrition from the marrow of it.
I stuff my words into your face all at once,
“We are still young. Fragile and young like
Newborn babies with pink gums and soft skulls.
Is survival not, even at that stage,
placed into the hands of our elders, the caretakers?
Did we struggle with faith like this before we
Learned to speak? Is doubt not then a learned thing?”
I watch you struggle to eat your smile.
You coat the surface of your lips with the tip of your tongue.
Life is dry without these movements.
These are the things you think but cannot say.
I know this only in the way you moisturize yourself.
I am breathless when we are done thinking.
These wet apologies,
I will accept.
The Moisture of Faith × ajthewriter