Through the nervous tension I was honest,
Stumbling through the reasons I care,
the beauty I see and my urgency to share,
Ending years of retreating silence
with the unfolding of tenderness.
She reeled with shock,
She searched for words.
She thanked and acknowledged,
Expressed being deeply touched,
She mentions another,
Not a word of me.
That deep space could not last,
Like warm breath on a winter night,
Fighting collapse right from exhalation.
I watch a fallen feather at our feet,
longing for the night sky from a drive way.
This home for her I built,
It scares me to the core.
I loathe this conditionality
but is reciprocity an endurance,
a patient wait for recognition,
Or is authenticity and vulnerability
a mystical instance of connection
that is recognised or left untouched,
Cherished or feared in that moment.
The strings of identity pull with familiar pain,
There is such weariness in the aftermath
of exposing the content of ones soul to silence,
Was this all the practice of attempt?
A hard lesson in exploring possibility?
An opening of a door?
For I feel that I am continuously apologising
for emotion, for intensity, for depth and honesty,
A life of contribution can sometimes appear
to isolate and render one an observer of all intimacy.
That ...I am ashamed to feel.
Perhaps one day I will smile,
I will see beauty in all this emotion I have felt,
In these landscapes I create each time,
Even If only beneath this chest, If only seen by me.
Perhaps they are still real,
like the dreams of a feather.