M.

for her

this is the space in which i subsist:

roots planted deep in tradition

despite my whole being contradicting

those in which i practice

steady presence in the company of others

only due to meticulous knots tied by

my own hands, binding me in place

silent, whether asked to be or not

but solely in the way wind passes

over her face and shifts her hair

in the early afternoon

this is the space in which she subsists:

inhale and smile, exhale and force it out

heartbeat consistent and intense as always

but only as much as the beat of the

next song that plays in a room full of people

bright presense no matter who she's with

she lights up the doorway as she passes

over it, and fills every corner of the place

clear voice and clearer intent, despite

the quiet mystery she exudes

distant and familiar, like a 

passing train in the night

this is the space in which we exist, together:

pads of fingers pressed to cheekbones

and confessions whispered on bathroom floors

fumbling hands that pull away, then intertwine

questions and promises that fall from lips 

like prayers, like we already know the

answers and the outcomes and the impact of words

she sings to me and the room falls away

i hold her arms, waist, head in my hands

and she exhales a sigh of relief

i become steady in her presence, and she

becomes brighter in mine

this is the space in which we exist,

and the space in which we continue to, together