tmbt: falling weightless
The air dances slowly and thick with wonder, my eyes adjusting to the sheen of it. Once dust hanging in the sunbeams, the texture is now more of a Bb drone than an A# quiver. I sit so still, so very still as not to disrupt it, not to break the concentration of each of those precious precious chains of molecules, chains of history, chains of fire and ice colliding under microscopic eye. But alas, I cannot stop my breathing. And so the sheen, so quickly fleeting at the force of my exhale, settles on the objects of my longing: The air above by head. The air behind plane wings. The air coming off a longest coastline. The air in your lungs released to my care.
The air seems weightless to the untrained, unbroken eye. The air seems weightless and yet it falls full force on to me with crushing blows. It holds me in my bed. It slips under my hips and asks for more movement. It settles itself not unkindly, but forcefully into every crack of my will. It falls weightlessly into every hole dug and left here with that sheen, that icy, fiery glint, that spirited unending breath upon breath upon breath. The air, it is both sergeant and salve. The air in and out of it all propels me forward, drops me softly, and kisses my cheeks to chin to neck to ear and back again and back again. Would it were yours. But it is mine. Would mine were yours. But yours is yours. Would it were different, we would not know the full beauty and grace of it all.
And so I am the air, the falling, the shining, the filling. I am the weight and the light of it, the moving and stillness of it, the flying still of it. I am the falling weightless beauty of every last piece of it.
Photo by AZRedHeadedBrat.