more root than flower, I

am first of my mother

(to whom so much belonged already)

then female

next brave

a small, stubborn animal

a wandering young buffalo

horned

communal

peaceful unless threatened

violent when

I am predisposed to play with anyone

sometimes no one

I am of dirt and salt

tears and new beginnings

an achy soul and tender heart

to welcome storms

know about rainbows

embrace departure before arrival

how else to see new skies,

hear new stories?

I have covered myself with creek clay

and lain in the sun to bake

rinsed in the summer stream

a muddy relief to exposed softened hide

I have run home barefoot through berries and prickers alike

I have listened carefully

I have counted every star

My dreams are of gathering

stories and fruits

I am more root than flower

I am first of my mother

I am anew

Beginning

looks like fresh fruit and flowers

wide open windows and bare feet

there are hours of solitude and sunrises

mugs of hot elixirs and local beer

my ideal life includes ritual

love letter writing, poetry

time on the road with new tunes

around the world

incredible humans welcoming me with open arms

they have gardens that need tending, ideas to discuss

I see myself sharing everything, owning little, reusing it all

as I sleep in spurts and eat in bursts

to keep my sanity salt. of earth, sea, sweat, tears

loved ones with whom I needn’t draw lines

my ideal life is sweet and savory, non-binary, a balance

and you, my dear, are right there in it

Were we friends now I would tell you, without equivocation, that I love you. I would remind you of your worthiness with honestly glowing reviews.

We are not friends now. We are something more desirous, a greedy beauty that haunts, unwilling to die with “Friendship” on the tombstone. As self-indulgent as YOLO, it sneaks into dreams: we are not friends.

But how, then, shall I tell you I love you? How trite. “I love you but I’m not in love with you.” That is a truth somehow, but so bitter. I want to discuss the in-between spaces again. Nothing exists on a binary! I could shout it at the world.

But to you, I want to whisper with my mouth soft against your cheek and my wet words in your ear, “I love you.” A simple truth with a promising future.

It was arguably just as well conceptualized by the characters in the film Fight Club, or rather the author, Chuck Palahniuk: the concept of a “single serving friend” or stranger you will only know for a short period, perhaps on a plane.

The thing is, everything ends. And the things we enjoy, in the context of this being needy and human, usually end too soon.

What if they didn’t? What if, as Waheed suggests in the attached, we could decide to just let each interaction be, as it is.

In practice, for me, this looks a lot like unapologetically living my life and possibly seeming apathetic or detached. I have a deep and abiding love for departure, for the end of one thing and the beginning of another. I have a complex and equally loving appreciation for pain. I understand how these things set me apart, in theory. But I do often wonder how others, especially people I love, might approach this concept. How do we do what Waheed is suggesting?

Wide-eyed and aware I have brought my traveled body back to these places I call home. My traveling gaze doesn’t recognize them as homes, but places I love the familiarity of.

There’s a wariness about me. It becomes expectation if I let it linger. There’s nothing like feeling unfamiliar in a familiar place. I wonder at the speed of speech as it comes at me, often more loudly than I expect. I am deciphering my mother tongue again.

It hits me like this: I have been speaking English in many countries. I have learned as many “thank you”s. These are simple, human speech. Now again I must learn the nuance of the English that’s spoken at home.

I hate it. I want straightforward words and considered statements. I see one person troubleshooting a situation and wanting to save another from discomfort by making a decision for them. I see liars hiding behind these excuses, in plain sight so you can’t really tell them apart from the people whose “heart is in the right place”.

My eyes have been wandering all these months and so, they wander still. They will not focus in conversation; I’m just listening. Must my eyes stay still upon a person? Some insist. I can feel an urgency of speech, as if so important. Everyone talks over each other, including me.

I noticed today that I stopped looking with my traveler eyes. I’d automatically honed in on thoughts and missed a few minutes of outdoors. I don’t know how long. I was jerked into a better form of consciousness by a glorious tree just flourishing just above a sidewalk, its petals decorating the concrete, boughs heavy in bloom. She startled me, this buxom bush. I readjusted and saw the world again from then on. Just in time to see my best friend.

This will happen more and more–can I check myself so often? Can I automatically recall being a part of the world? As I linger here, my traveling eyes will not. I may stay wary awhile, but when my guard slips away I too will believe in our fervent talking over of each other. I will think my mundanities important. I will forget the real world.