No longer. The winged heart etched into my back has, ready or not, taken its most bittersweet flight. Its weight of late has become burdensome; once it has a strong enough wind to carry it somewhere unconditionally warm and wanting, it won't land on anything less than such a heaven -- until then -- let it rest, replenish and reorganize -- for its thoughts, words and actions have been chaotic far too long.
Perhaps some coconut water will do the trick, or a swift kick in the head -- just to remind me of its importance in making major decisions; as much as we lovers are naturally governed by often impractical but inescapably delicious fluttering from deep inside our hearts, this disconnect with logic can lead us into hopeless places -- tethered to those who sleep with one eye open and scissors under the pillow.
Don't most relationships need a thinker -- plentiful in methodologies and rationalizations about the pairing he's chosen -- insistent upon some sort of plan? If mine didn't have one, I'd take my partner's hand in mind, pull him close, and throw us both off a cliff into an ocean deep with desire and shallow with concern for societal norms and the expectations of others.
Somewhat perplexed as to whether or not my affinity for leaping before looking is as negative as some consider it, I might as well head into the hot room for an ass-kick and cap the evening with a sweetly addictive rye and coke -- because what other immediate course of action is there that lifts my heavy heart and leaves me believing tomorrow is ripe with possibilities?
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