[ “Give me a wildness whose glance no civilization can endure…” -Henry David Thoreau ]

There is something in me of savagery.

I feel it, gripping in my chest, caught in my throat,

A cold wind whispering on my shoulders sending chills down my back like streaks on cheekbones of black sap and ash. I am overwhelmed by the night.

Such things are too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain. Drunk on the wine of squeezing every last drop from the early morning, on an empty stomach of sleep, straining to hear every last syllable from her keen lips, which are never enough…
I almost feel the groping tendrils of her growing trust.

Deep down, there are still remnants of ancient hunter, wise gatherer; heeding unknown omens, troubled oceans.
Keeping the night watch, and quiet conversations resemble running in shallow water, like sleep walking, speaking in slow motion.

The words trickle down my tongue and hang, quivering, before they are persuaded to drop onto her outstretched hands, and be ferried to her ears. We make fools of ourselves like being smart is out of style.

Our haphazard stories like poorly wrapped packages,
that open to reveal still-beating hearts. Underneath the mask, we all resemble savages.

I wasn’t expecting this. I’m not sure I even have the strength to follow through with my plans to go to the lake today. I wanted to put my whole body in the water.

How do I collect the scattered stones of our small talk, of conversation seeping lazily underneath the door of Sunday morning? I want to make a tree fort in the canopy of the universe, and sip her soul, and make a nest among the brewing and the growing and the storage of the years.

I want to rest my head on your lap while the sun dies. I want the very ground underneath us to be shifted. I wish I kissed you.

No words. I sent my appreciation over the air between us in waves, in whispers too low to be located, too high to be heeded by triphammer bones and eardrum stethescope translators.
Like smoke signals in sound waves, I sent you a message through the goatskin drum beating in the left side of my chest, and I hope you understood it.

So why, now that I am returned to safety and familiarity three hours east of the Twilight Drive-In, why do I feel so far away from civilization?
Why has this wildness taken up residence in my hollow center? I am pink and raw on the inside like pounded meat and asphalt friction.

When deep fears strip away our dignity
and that violent passion wrestling with tragedy.
In search of magic we will climb until our feet bleed,
stealing fire from the gods to feel its purity,

Unnamed wildness holding ritual dances inside of me,
deep down, we do not need to be taught how to embrace one another – this comes naturally.
To fight back against the isolation of the infinite is the inheritance of our instincts,
So maybe one of these days, I’ll tell you what thoughts of love the wild one truly thinks…

[PhotoCred: Nils Loewen, https://www.flickr.com/photos/nilswloewen/]


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