the most beautiful thing: speak up
It’s a peculiar feeling, this stirring and climbing. From the gut, sometimes hip, sometimes ribs, these words emerge as if seeking sunlight is finally safe and breathing new air is finally a delight instead of a burden. It is an uncoiling of scales iridescent and wise, a reconstituting of membranes long laid to waste for want of kinder eyes. It is a quick intake of breath and slow rummaging of will through heartstrings. Cut here. Tie tighter there. Spin anew where none was before. It is a sweet surrender, a whisper that threatens to be violent but lands with the touch of lashes on cheek, and it is right now.
They are climbing, the words. Up. Up and out and into the winds blowing in this still still quiet room. And the rise and fall of them is like your sleeping breath, sometimes heavy, sometimes deceptively light. And wherever they fall over there is just fine for it is the launching and the flying and the memory of wind on face and pulse in palms that is the most beautiful thing of all. And if they land safely in your pulsing palms, all the better, all the more beautiful.
Image by 10verlada.