S L I P

I am afraid

of myself.

As egalitarian as
                          we are

I fear
        that you are saving me.


I dreamed a different universe
                                   in which
                                   you did not
                                      exist

but all my turmoil
                             did.

                                    a universe where
                                    he stayed in close quarters
                                    once rejected
                                    (like before)


I don't care what he thinks--
It was hard for me to reject him

It took    s t r e n g t h
                                    and  s e l f  c a r e

(and I am not always good at that).

I fear that the person I am

is the person who would

S L I P

so easily into his possession again

if you were not here (in heart).


                                        There was some peace there
                                         in his embrace.

                                         I am not such a masochist
                                         that I would have stayed otherwise.


but possibly because his presence was so physical
his absence purely in his mental and positive emotional

and you

s e e m             s o              f a r                              away

that the universe my dreams create
is one where self doubt reins.

                                                              if it was't for you,
                                                              would i S L I P ?

It's Okay

I hope that I am not my father
that I do not

destroy

what is good.

He saw it in me,
the same thing,

the same fate

                      he had fallen to

time and time again.


"You don't have to make yourself lose,"
he says.

"I don't know what you are talking about,"
I say.

He gestures to the colored board that a related child had abandoned me at.
"You make sure that you don't win."

"She's five."
I shrugged.

"I do it too,"
He says, heavy.
"I don't think I am allowed to win."

I am trying to block him out.

"But we are, Tasha.

It's okay.

We are allowed to win sometimes."


Maybe I am afraid of winning.
Maybe I am afraid to get what I want.
Maybe I am afraid to be happy.

Does he think of that?

Maybe
like him,

I will self-destruct if things are too good,
because if I make myself loose,
I do not have to deal with

the pain

of having something taken away.


"I don't know what you're talking about Dad."
I pretend not to cry.

name

The trees whisper your name

not the letters or the syllables
but the way in which I know you
                                                   
    The way in which my mind recalls you.



The crickets give their piece too
a ever murmuring
                            the heart beat
                            of the woods.



The trees whisper your name


and I listen
                  with joy.

Palms

I guess I'm out of practice.
The toughening of skin.

I had done it so much for so long
emotionally
bottling up my thoughts
that would be deemed
stupid
                                     And just letting my body be comfort.

with you
it is the exact

Opposite.

I let my mind flow
one idea, observation, joke to the next
the innards of my mind become as intertwined with yours
as light through a fiber optic.

and I must harden the skin
of my palm.

the itch I feel
to reach out and grasp yours
I forget
is to be subdued.

I was so good before-- before The Gap.
I saw you so often, was so near to you
that I had trained the tingle in my hand to ebb away
the warmth in my thighs to subside
the flush of my face to calm.

the exact
opposite

of how I taught myself to be with him
is how I must relearn

to be with you.

                                     Unless,
                                                 Of course
                                      I learn that is what you have wanted too.

Transitions

Transitions
are hard.

Transitions
are needed.

Sometimes
  Transitions
             are wanted--
Sometimes
              they are not.


When someone is made to feel special,
 How does one cope?

when message after message is sent
           when hour after hour is spent

reconvening
relearning
               one another
how can I not feel special?
how can I not feel loved?
how can I keep
                       my unrequited love at bay?
                             as we each talk of our own perpetual loneliness.

I look back to what I held onto;
what gave me strength in my role of "just friends"
Never to be a glove upon that hand,
                                                        I glance at the words,
                                                       "I never really see myself dating you"

ok. Good. We're clear.

"So, what's up with you and Corey?"

Who? Oh. Name Slip. Aaron.

Later:
         "Corey would always ask out the girls I liked...
           When I asked them why, they said, 'Because he asked."

Hmm.


Long walks, as we used to
 In the trees, as we used to:
                                            "The person I am now
                                              Would have dated you in High School."

Shield is shattered.
                Would have? What of now.

                                       "It's like I'm a piece of yourself you got back."

Yes, yes you are.
             You have always been.

                     "She is lucky to have found a good high school sweet heart"
                              "Haha, well I wish we could all have that kind of luck."

Maybe, we do.
            Maybe, me & you are 
                         that lucky.


                              I just don't know
             How to ask you.



                                                    I hate transitions.

Sequeal

A Beginning
and An Ending

The prologue to our story
caught between
                         with Acknowledgements.

Reunions are sweet.
Departures, heavy.
                              I wish an Authors Note
                              to tell
                              where the story is coming from
                              to remove
                                              speculation.

Like any sequel,
time has passed between the covers.
                                              There were passages left blank,
                                               timelines, only partially filled.

The same characters,
                                 another tale.

What does our sequel hold?
The part two to our adventures?
The continuing of our thought?

How strange that the setting would be framed between engagement--

A Beginning
and An Ending.

How strange
that we have both concluded
freedom as best;

Both concluded
help with growth the best.

I do no regret the path I took to get here;

I do not regret
the pain
it took together.

I do not regret my wantonness of you
I do not regret
the unrequited  response to my desire at a young age.

( I was not ready).

I do not regret
the love shared in between stories
                                 before stories.
                                                        they make us who we are.

Do not regret
the lessons learned.

What I do regret
is the lack of self respect
for myself-- for yourself.

                                                  You are beautiful.
                                                  You are desirable.

And yet,
All you see,
All I saw,
                  was how ourselves were not enough-- were too much
                                                                                were judged or put aside.

But when I found your side again,
     when I was by your side again,
                 I found the warmth I missed.

                                                 I found my friend.

And though I may wander in my wantonness
I care less about the journey's end

and I find I care more about
how each day

                       Begins.


                             

Plateau

So vibrant it is here-- another world than what I have lived.

Red rock and sage brush,
turquoise,
and a dusty sky.

The perspective
is clearer up here
on the plateau.

It is a sturdy place to build a home,
The Hopi told me so.

It is safe here, on the plateau.
A rising up,
A leveling out.

I level out
with you
              stopping
before I reach the pinnacle
                              of my point.

The San Francisco Peaks
seem so far away.

Deities live there,
that is what the Hopi say.

And so with you,
so far away,
a place I've always dreamed
but never reached.

Like climbing up Fish Point
with medicine men;

He does not know or understand his gift
but he accepts.

As you guide,
You accept.

Looking for someone like you, but not you.
(I thought I was too),
But aye! Not I.

(I'll accept.)


But as Eric Blue Bird sought his kokopelli
down to the deepest regions of Yucatan,
So I search for any sign
of where you're coming from.

Like Alice Blue Bird,
I gather up the salt;

We gather up succulent salt plant in grocer bags,
finding moisture in the dessert;
finding growth between the rocks.

I look beyond my dusted toes
red covered sandals
seeking nourishment in the desolate,
an old woman my guide.

Like drunken reservation youth,
reclaiming their own name, their own path,
I scrawl my own symbol with the ancients;
I try to carve out my own path.

I claw at the rock wall;
I climb and scrape my knee
but when I reach what seems the top,

I've only reached the plateau
not San Francisco Peaks.

The plateau is a good place to build a home,
the Hopi told me so.

But just as Skinny the Navajo
I wish to know
what lies beyond the peaks.