still

There's something that wants to write me
to ride me
to push me off the edge of disbelief
and into the long fall of grace
into the arms of mystery

where I can find
and be found

I am the carrier of phrases
that don't mean much of anything
until they're facing me
wide open
wide eyed
unashamed
unedited
unsure of what they will say

and I know I am somewhere
in between
vulnerability
and stoicism
where poetry becomes a game
of how I can best say
what's really true
(right now, anyway)
instead of what's messy and real
and wild

I am being written every day
the story
your story
I am writing it all down

I am letting it sink into the page
into the creases of my skin
into the lines around my mouth
into the wrinkles of my sheets
into the whispers of belonging

into the spaces 
I'm still uncovering

still

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