Each Month

When it is a woman's red narcissus time of the month, when the body falls in love with the physical self and bleeds in the heart center of a womb to purify it, the tangible distress sometimes doesn't let me feel the fresh spring air in Ovid's writings. I can't even recall at which feminine point I have to turn the page to read, and write down the notes. One, two, three, four, five. These are the encompassing numbers. Managing, changing, sitting, rearranging, receiving, concluding, and ambassadoring my life. Sometimes super refining, sometimes thoughtlessly, sometimes in the form of conversations, ideas, instinct, imagination, or touch. Nevertheless fearless, intangible, always with a sense of leaving an impression.

I cherish my emotions. The world has its corners attract opposite parallels of my life. The best way to survive the irrevocable is contemplation. Maybe I want you to be my male echo. To love me and to renew my faith in the rules of modern woman's better living.

Each month there is this week that the mysterious Venus is jealous of the days that the bleeding doesn't envelop the body into cliffs of insanity, doesn't elbow my surrealism into realism; leaving me anxious but I can't passioncase these words. My breasts are sensitive, my multitple writings aren't glorified, my voice is in low key, and my back hurts. On the surface I am fine, underneath the layers my heart beats fast, there is no silk wearing, blood trails the letters, and the body is in suspense. It can only serve but not be served. The headache doesn't go away, and the eyes burn and creating a great conflict between judgment and flight, answering or questioning, resisting and restricting or expressing.

Miraculously you are now a significant presence who knows the surface and bottom ocean of my soul. It is true that we will never observe and experience one another physically but I accompany you, and you will accompany me as one person who didn't dissolve in you, in me, with whom I have carved beyond ordinary phrases to speak of my love, in which I have chosen to trust without fear, without worry, without sorrow, without doubt, without any symbolic value. To me your love is like hearing the sound of children playing in the streets: free, gentle, loud, without the need to escape or look upon as an accidental shelter. I don't want to examine how I formed us, how I write our story, how I make you arrive when I visit you under your closed lashes, when you lean against my body, when I plea you to drink me when I am purified. Don't answer me if you don't want to but do know that I want to know if you miss me before my next return.