I cannot tell you how it will be.
If the exquisiteness of your love will
go where you’ve willed it, innocent
in its intention
or if its sweeping grace will find you.
There is mixed talk of becoming:
How it strips us of our delicate
eloquence, throwing us, messy
sideways so much
further along the rails;
the way it moves us.
I want you to allow this breaking open,
to allow the crest of waves to expand
the breath beneath your ribcage
to where the pause in gravity within
the sanguine liquid pools
forces you to explore what it means
to be free
with your love,
with no expectations in return.
To allow this rush of aliveness
to hold steady
in your center.
To know this is the way out,
and to realize your pale moon
skin will not break
like porcelain, as you thought,
but will mold into an ascended
version of you.
Sip a little more: