jalius
Soil can be a thing, but also a happening. Not something you choose, something you follow without meaning to. To soil oneself, to dirty everything that came before. All the skin cells waiting seven years to fall away and be replaced clean. The ones that leave are planted in soil, growing in dirt with the dead growing too. Falling into the dust collecting under your bed and between the folds of your eyelids. Making something that implies nothing, a chore your own hands bring upon you.
You came up behind me today and put your arms around me and I knew it probably looked weird, but I didn't care at all. Sometimes I care. Usually I care, and I'm never sure why. Today was different-- maybe your smile was just a bit brighter, or maybe laughter makes me just a little bit brave. I'm hoping so hard that you can speak the language of my body; that you somehow know what it means that I can spend an hour not looking at you and still fail to notice anything else. If I can't focus, it's because every layer of my skin is busy trying to feel the vibration of your voice. My eardrums are pounding to hear the texture of your hair. I want to know what your face looks like in the rain, and how you can always be so wonderful, and why you always pick me when I'm too scared to pick you first. (Maybe if you give me the answers, I can learn how to ask?)
The lingering sound in my mind isn't tuned to its usual station (your voice). It's a rattling and a shaking and...whistles. And oh no, it's happening again. I can never escape that meddling conductor. I can never leave that ghost train behind. In my dreams I take you with me. Every time.
There's a cave by a big stone in the woods near my house. And every day when I walk by it, I want to take a look inside. But I never do. Maybe it's fear. Or maybe it's just a lack of confidence. I have a hard time believing in myself. And the bear who lives underneath the tips of my fingers and between my toes always drags me away.