Journal Entry - Dusk

from evening, May 16, Friday:
dusk - quieting birds - hushed trees - lilac clouds backlit by turquoise and red, moving,coasting, lilting. Limbs overgrowing the masonry wall but not yet blooming -- hummingbirds hover, whir, whisk away, frustrated. This is when I, too, thirst for sugar, red-colored dew, a rush, a flight with my fantasies full. Sometimes I draw so near to them I hear the words they mouth to me --- "Come, enter, welcome." I spell the words out slowly & enrich my pulse, but step back. Reverse, when the imagination only wants acceleration, immersion, satisfaction, actualization. Internal dusk, glowing orange-azul and floating, shaped by desires and heartbeat, an illusion of air & available space. Still - oh! It feels so good!! I am always blooming, I think. I'm my own source. Stay my limbs but loose my mind. A hard hard dichotomy. A true skill, and one I've not fully mastered. Many times I follow with my body -- that tilt, that lean, that expectant muscled tautness. Catch myself, spell R-E-A-L-I-T-Y, as many times as it takes. ======== Which is a truer indication of who I am? The me that follows? The me that imagines? The me that holds back? Or all? ... heavy swallowing, all that sugar -- sometimes too rich, other times the saving dose. I stay in the middle, I guess, on an edge I've claimed for my own. I believe in fantasy; I chooose reality. One informs the other. Maybe there is the secret of the source I give myself ... that blend of indulgence tempered by restraint. My drug. My self. & then this, for Double BB:
Topsy-turvy. I feel alive inside. This magical spring, now rolling into heat, is the crisped green I feel inside, foliage and seed, all this murmuring of limb & leaf. I want to be moaning in your arms, my rib cage so small under your hands, my wetness your surround, this love, this love, this green hot seeking love. You water me, & turn me, & absolve the weeds of me in your exuberant tenderness. I believe you, every time. It holds me so steady! It makes my roots shiver & hold tight. I grow forever -- reaching for you. God, the summons of words -- I can barely see my pen, this page, but I HAVE TO SPEAK. Are you thinking of me now? I hold you so close. What do you see in my eyes -- you? me? Us? I love you, looking at me. If allowed, I'll sing. My throat is never immune; neither the arch of my thoughts. I feel when your melody enters me, or hovers, seeking penetration. My response is winged then -- full, flutter, pause, alight, cling. It's a beautiful song; it's a woman's song; it's the song I feel for you.