resuscitate

He isn't the flat, polished surface I wish he'd be. He is sandpaper, he is coarse. Within him grows scrub oak. He is a cover, but sometimes he is where wild cats hide their kill. I want to be the victim of a panther. I want to hide inside of him. I want to explore what I cannot currently see while the rest of me returns to the thirsty soil.

But I don't want him to be this. I both don't want and so so so desperately want. I don't want it because I want it. I've grown accustomed to denial and isolation. There is a cleanliness found in the lack of craving.

But I'm on the verge of caving in.

I'm on the verge of a cliff that I overlooked two years ago. I regret not going over the edge. Why didn't I jump and trust in the branches to break my fall?

Because I don't want to fall. Because I don't want to break. Because I'm as starved as the ground for water I won't drink.

I've drowned before. I know what it's like to lose oxygen. Then again, I don't know what it's like to reach the rocky surface and inhale the sage-filled air. It might just revive. I might just survive.

I want to fall into the pool of the moon with you, baby, and rise up in the desert sky.