a kiss in a dream

if sometimes, in a dream, an occasional kiss didn’t find me
like a generous gift wrapped in soft slithers of silk
stars, glitter, hot pink
i don’t think i’ll make it
even one day at a time
even moment by moment
even now.

this kiss,
is sunlight breaking on my skin
like warm oil
like apple pie pudding on a cold afternoon
wrapped in my gabi with the hands that wove it
little tired cotton balls
soft with overuse.
it is like a scent that insists to stay
when you’ve washed it off to coarseness
to bleeding
to scars
still it stays.

he holds me
like a porcelain that would crack with too much handling
a little bit harder than you would touch a butterfly
a little bit softer than you would set a broken bone
he says
i want to call your name for the first time
say it like a magic spell
like even you are hearing it for the first time
so your eyes could stop darting like an arrow
rushing to its wound.

a deep exhale breathes into me
there’s an unsettling that comes
with being truly seen
my body wants to grow flowers
water its thirsty soil
mend it’s burnt patches
grow roots and rise.

this kiss could be my home
a budding belonging that’ll make me want to stay
my tent by a bonfire
my shabby hut on a mountain top
my little house by the raging waves
where my feet make prints that stay till tomorrow
until i choose to leave again.

©Tsion B., 2017

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don’t be mine

don’t be mine.
i don’t want to own you
even if it’s like a jewel i purchased yesterday,
new and shiny.

come to me when your heart feels like it;
when your blood thirsts for my scent like an adventurous land.
love is a returning;
sometimes in wild, raging fires,
sometimes in drops of vapor from faraway countries.
i want to be your resting place,
your home for an evening,
for many evenings.

but don’t be mine.
there’s a tiredness that comes from belonging.
instead, visit me like a distant dream,
an unfinished love affair you wish to start again,
a beginning where ending can come but may not come.

i hold my desire like a flag for you
like there’s an army behind it.
upright. unwavering.
but i don’t hold a promise for tomorrow;
it would be heavy for us to carry expectations of what we ought to be.

don’t be mine.
come to me when your soul seeks the quiet in togetherness,
the space in becoming,
the hours of searching in all sorts of light.
come to me
when you hunger for the oneness that can only come with releasing each other.

©Tsion B., 2017

love letter

last night, before i went to bed
i asked god to write me a love letter
because it’s been too long since i got one
and my soul feels tired from all the waiting.

i said look here god, i don’t need any fancy words
nor do i want you to write me a poem
i just need a few lines that say
‘your heart is fine, your heart will heal, your heart will love again.’

send me a rainbow
or a sunflower,
send me freshly turned ground, red and black and blue
send me seeds newly sprouting.
i’ll keep an eye out.

you have to do this for me.
or else i’m folding up the stuff that i’m made of.

i’ve done too much hoping in this vicious world
my knees have been skinned from too much falling
i’ve started growing bruises as if i were caned and stoned
beaten to brokenness
as if words could suck the blood closer to the skin
and skin wants to show off the invisible pain
wear it like a medal,
a prize of emerging.

send me a sign
a feather from an angel wing
dipped in ink dripping
like my pen and my tears.
or maybe a glimpse of my childhood dreams
where i can cup my hands and drink
from clear streams
take breath from all the running.

there are days i can’t remember my own name
this city feels like a wilderness to me
and i forget where to turn on roads i’ve taken so many times before.
my body has become a ragged field of rocks
where barefoot bleeds
a gentle touch turns me into gutters of muted screams.

so hurry!
i’ll keep a watchful eye for the coin in the dust
fled from a careless pocket
or colors in the sky
or a flower turning its head toward the sun
the forgotten sound of crooning water
a new growth.

i will wait.
my last waiting will be a not giving up
my last waiting will be an unwavering grace.

P.S.
i’m at the same address.

©Tsion B., 2017