ere I am, hyper fixating on these golden doors to maintain this up drafting internal synchronization of all the cells in my body to seize the most vivid imagery of you immersed in golden rays of sunlight. Swallowed by the summer heat drenched in sweat, the little hairs; stuck on the temple, ear and cheekbone radius scattered like the roots of daisies. Relying on the strength of my wandering shoulder position to bask my spirit in the study of your diaphanous essence, it is in that moment in which I chose to see forever days of your waking smize and soft reluctance to be perceived in this big, big world. It is not a question of whether my surviving days of selfish consumption haunt the bones of my courage to live, I lived with a spirit conditioned to torment the reality of true love. I’ve seen rupture of bridges destroyed by the sword of my empty heart, to know an ego is to know the death of sincerity. My soul has known survival more than peace; the question is, am I the same disrupter of quantum romance for the sake of God’s testament for the existence of my soulmate? I am no beast, perhaps a bit too smart for my own good, the pressure on my acromion alerts me into a parachute yanking me from searching the stars with hopes there be a sabotaging door into the next multiverse. Landing, here I am, reminded by the pain of time, marinating in present moments is a beautiful swarm of butterflies, but one must continue to move.
H
I wonder if my slumbers are as sheer as yours in the hours of sunrise, probably not, a beast you might think at first glance. Then you realize I’m actually pretty handsome. I wonder how many times you woke first to gaze and observe me as I continue to dream for a few more minutes; electrifying my nervous system with your radiating pulse of vibrant waves deriving from the gland of consciousness; your intentions to lounge next to my resting body is a level of intimacy that cradles my dreams and pulls me back into an awakening. Sometimes I get the feeling, during the middle of the night before sunrise, you watched me in the pitch dark. Once I’ve settled my eyes to shut confidently and was under the impression that you were winding down with a doomscroll, I may have missed the part where you lock your phone; wrap the duvet over your exposed shoulder and turn towards me to search for the white of my eyes. It’s the beating of my heart sitting with the possibility of opening my eyes to capturing the last milliseconds of your studying, wandering gaze. I withdrawal control to fall into an act of conforming to a reality; that maybe you did shut them to avoid my curiosity that whirls up in me to ask: “what are you thinking about at this time of night?” or “what do you see in me right now in this pitch black room?”.
In the resistance of temptation while acknowledging your eyelids shielding your portal of galactic escape, I forget about the quantum realities and choose this present moment instead. Dark blue silhouettes, painted by Kerry James, I’d want him to paint the spiritual energy we recognize as “toasted” in the color of soft gold to represent discernment and courage for selectively existing in the same space. Hovering above the bed is cupid tying up a broken arrow with an orange bow made from silk glistening from the illuminance of faith for love wearing a smirk that rebels the easy recline of frustration. Cupid is on either side, the shot was aimed at exclusivity but instead was met by a brick wall. Disappearing into ashes are the arrows from our hearts and ribs in the dark blue night, connected with this soft gold string of energy. Electrified and intense. Love is not blind, Cupid shot that arrow with intention and hope for it to strike someone, somebody; little did they realize the ashes covering the clementine cotton was a mere reflection of a tax season. Your eyes coordinate the position of your index finger to the center of my pineal gland, maybe they glide to my lips, to my ears, then my heart. I look at you and ask, “how is this possible?”, as if I’m the one you were not supposed to love and yet, here we are, on an 8-hour train ride to New York City in the middle of the summer.
In Mystic, Connecticut; managing heat, the obnoxious coughing and overhearing of absurdly whimsical dialogue within our radius of seating. If you gave me a magic 8ball to see into the future, I don’t think I would’ve changed anything if I had any trickling advantage to shape shift the outcome of every scenario we had. For someone who growls and hisses at the inconvenience that is out of their control with a wrench thrown in the motor of a well-crafted itinerary, I was a bit amazed by the level of composure and willingness to coexist and exist presently with the circumstances. It sucked to have to wait 3 to 4 hours for a new engine, but we weren’t ready to rip the spines out of each other’s backs quite yet. At least, I didn’t feel that way. Perhaps it was the actuality of the trip, grounding my peace, stretching out this good impression of the man I want to become and not the man who complains. There were one or two moments where I put myself psychologically in the role of a provider and fearing that it won’t be enough and it will be disappointing. The imperfections unraveled to show the stress and overthinking of leading, being perfect, being “the man”, when really, my eyes were widened by her reassurance. Feeling my body exhaling at her words that soften the glue of masculinity, reminding me of her intention to exist and live with me through and through no matter what. That we’re both doing this thing, this traveling thing.
The count for how many art galleries and museums welcomed our footprints was enough to think traveling to Europe and Mexico was in the cards. Like we can, artfully take over the world, in a way that we leave our mark, in a way that we introduce ourselves together to strangers representing the same city, same neighborhood. I love remembering the ways we surrendered the connectivity of our duality to immerse ourselves in the same love we have for art. We walked in together, and I found myself in a trance halfway through learning about the fashion history of our kinfolk. How the elegance of brown and black men not only signified status but evoked a startling perception in white people to realize that poise, presentation and dignity is a thought for slaves and for freed men and women. Encapsulated fabrics of times passed igniting a flame of inspiration to trailblaze stylistically every day of my life. Transitioning in a chronological sense of evolution, the modernity of expression through material and fabrics, the bar elevates at the hands and glance of brown and black innovators, men, women, non-binary and transgender. Forgetting to breathe while the soundscape ambience carried my feet coordinates into a waltz number, by the ending of this dance, I landed at the gift shop, wanting something to take home with me besides her. I wonder if she watched me walk out, I wonder if she watched me read the descriptions and take pictures, not once did I swivel and care to look for her and I wonder if that made it bittersweet.
To be immersed, to be an individual but still there together connected by a soft gold spiritual string of energy. I let go of my hyper fixating of the gold doors in front of me, there’s absolutely nothing there now except beyond the squares of glass the sun beaming empowered by a blowing wind contorting the flags wave, whipping the wind back for the audacity to whisp and whisp demanding answers from the God’s of the stratosphere. Strangers passing by, some shield from the annoying wind, other’s overpower the force with a straight back and high chin wearing sweaters and button downs. It’s unbelievable the ways you still make me hold my breath, the way I sit back and prop my chin in the palm of my left hand, sitting the weight of my metacognition on my whole left side pressuring my elbow deeper and deeper into this arm rest but discernment of self, that is what breaks the language of this pensive man. An argument with an alter ego is unsettling because you think one is more passionate than the other, the only difference between the two is that one of them is more grounded in reality than the other. What is wasting when shaving the numbers off the clock is an occupation that pays you in impulsive burst of gratitude? It’s not a job to find love, but the responsibility of sincerity is what carries the amplification of identity. To consistently choose unconditional love regardless of what time it is, regardless of what reaping clock grew nails to learn clawing as an alarm clock beneath your feet; there is a burning truth, hidden in the palm mark left on the glass of this golden door.