In my dream I drown.

Retrouvailles

This morning I discovered a bruise the size of two quarters on my rib. I imagine it extending to the bone, a red and purple flower blooming on the white porous surface. I had a dream the night before of swimming in a deep, wide lake, the scent of mud and the taste of mangoes in my mouth. I had no direction, no purpose, but I was only vaguely aware of that. I swam until my chest ached with the effort of breathing and my shoulders complained that the water was heavy, heavy, heavy. 

I woke up cold, with the sensation of having just emerged from a body of water, my hair plastered to my neck and shoulders. I may have struck myself in my sleep; an awful, self-injurious tendency once done during the waking hours now resurfacing in moments when my mind is not alert, not guarded. Or could this flower on my rib be a physical manifestation of my emotions as of late? I have been going through my days automatically, in a haze of hurt and bewilderment. Last night, I spoke a word to the darkness when I awoke, but I was met with a wall of silence. 

I wait. I sing to fill the silence.

If a man once loved you,
he’s turned you into a moth.

That’s how he’ll remember
the flutter: that numinous,
that beating, that winged.

Angels and moths:
that’s who men love.

But I don’t recollect like that.
I don’t think I ever loved
that gently. And I’ve never
flown toward a burning
house, hoping, maybe
my faith lay in that
single thing left,
in that smoldering filigree.
I never reminisce
a sorrow that delicately shaped.

But sometimes I feel someone remembering
me that way: translucent,
crazy, awake only at night.
He’s regretting his fingertips
were not wide or soft enough.
He’s mourning me now.
He’s imagining me eating away
at someone else’s light.

And that’s perfect.
That’s exactly how
he always wanted to love
me. My wings, 
my hair-like antennae
hanging;
my frenulum
between his forefinger
and his thumb.

- Olena Kalytiak Davis, "Angels and Moths"

2  Things:

1. Look.

2. No more regrets. Ever.

Afternoon delight.

Drinking peppermint tea.

Reading Ondaatje's In the Skin of a Lion (only in small doses, because it will absolutely slay you if go too deep too soon too fast).

Thinking of you and when I finally get to see you and going too deep too soon too fast and again and again and again in waves that crest and spill over and over and over.

Only warm things today. My bones cannot handle it otherwise.