Who is holding your hand as you walk the stairwell deep, deep into the night?
Counting down the levels, you go slowly, absorbing the scenery.
You are beginning to remember things.
Things you wanted to remember, and things you didn’t.
There is a color and a taste and a smell as you pass through a memory.
Some things were left undone –
a protection was broken,
and it’s still broken.
That one’s sharp.
There’s a sensation and a sound – these things she tried to forget,
even as they happened.
What can she do, but play dead?
Pretend to be asleep?
Never speak of it?
The answer is forgetting, dismissing, ignoring.
The deadness was a coping skill, but now she wants her life back.
Now she wants to hear the sounds and see the colors and smell the whole experience.
Her sense of taste has returned, and she rejoices in the pleasure and discernment of her tongue.
And touch, ohhh….
Touch that she chooses and desires.
Touch that has her pining for more.
Touch that brings her to her knees
and fills her face with such a yearning….
she’ll even tell you what’s on her mind.
When did touch become fun again?
When she walked back into her innocence.
When did she set her mind free?
When the girl woke up.
Maybe she’s a late bloomer.
Maybe she’s just getting started.
And maybe she doesn’t mind one bit.
For maybe it delights her ~ this play ~
of being the girl and the woman and all the things she is feeling and beholding and being led by.
pours like rain on parched earth and your lips say “I’m alive!”
as you pull her into your essence.