I the pointy tip of forest pines. I am rooted deep into the Earth. I am always reaching for the sky but can never quite touch it no matter how hard I try. I am the reason pine sol smells the way it does. I let the wind threaten to topple me over and fall but yet never let it. I will tip to the left and tip to the right but I default to straight up reaching reaching arms outstretched hugging the whole sky as if it was all mine and only mine.
I am the tailbone. Aged, sore, felt most at the end of a long day. I throb and ache and shout out for her to fucking stop already. I beg for him to apply pressure. I plead for her to work her magic on me with the souls of her feet. I know she can feel me and I know she knows I am asking her to slow down but yet she can’t. It’s not in her nature and I am just the lone tailbone so who am to dictate the pace at which she moves?
I am the tip of a cracked finger nail. Clickity clack I type on plastic squares with letters on them for hours on end. I am broken because she writes words of her brokenness with leaking ink pens and electronic devices hot to the touch. She seeks solace in the swipe left and swipe right like a fucked up metronomic meditation. She spells out her anger and sadness and magic with me and I have no say. She uses me as her weapon, her love sling, her hammock filled with songs and fantasy and desires and shadows and wonderings on the subject of death.
I am dried up mud caked at the bottom of her shoe. I slosh around when it rains and I get stuck when it dries. I am brittle, I crack. I’m not meant to be loved or desired. I am nothing more than a temporary stepping place. I dissipate in the wind, turning into nothing as I float through the ether. I am microscopic particles of Earth.
I am the jingle in the bell of her collar. I’m only activated when she’s moving. Prancing on sand, frolicking in the forest, hopping over streams. I ding in the key of C # minor and I am pleasing to the ear. I am a reminder of her presence. I do not speak but I sing with every movement and I am essential to her existence.
I am the dancing flame of a candle lit on her altar. I am the scent of toasted coconut and fig tree. My single flame lights up the entire room. As soon as her eyes adjust she can see everything. Every stitch in the hem of her dress. Every wrinkle at the corners of her lips. With this light she navigates her thought patterns but ends up in a maze wandering around for lifetimes without ever finding the cheese.