Rooted, I used to think.

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Zoa - Monday, Feb. 10, 2020
Nine Months - Monday, Feb. 03, 2020
Perfect - Wednesday, Jan. 22, 2020
Rye and Ginger - Monday, Jan. 20, 2020
Snow/Forever - Thursday, Jan. 16, 2020

Friday, Jan. 10, 2020 @ 12:18 am
Winter Blossoms

We go to yoga together, and I watch his hand hover in mid-air. His hand appears strong and gentle, and I think about how it will touch me later. I hear him breathe in and out as we move together through the poses. The room is dark and candlelight flickers against the walls.

Four years ago we were again side by side at yoga. We didn’t know each other yet, and I wonder about the arc of our stories, of life, of how people intersect in time and space.

His hand does touch me later. He traces the curves of my body and pulls up my hair to kiss my neck. He pushes himself against me and then inside of me. His hands find all of the places that arouse me, and I come at the same time as him and then collapse onto him, feeling his heart beat against my chest. He holds onto me, and we lay in silent reverence of the moment, our bodies damp and our breathing heavy.

Making love while the world falls apart around us. A part of it feels wrong, but there’s another part of it that feels right.

And then there’s this: the daffodils in the park are up and nearly open, and I cycled through a corridor of plum trees in full blossom. There is a snowfall warning, but the plants don’t seem to care. The flowers push forth in a heady show of fertility despite the risk of frost.

Life is fragile. The end point is unknown.

Make love, give love, receive love. Be passionate. Be brave.

Dare to flower in the face of uncertainty.

If I were to die tomorrow, my only regret is not having the opportunity to witness him hearing me say I love you.

Roots | Shoots