Her Hair Sometimes

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This design was originally published with the following lore:

Her love is an endless garden from which I draw my strength, full of beauty and richness I'd thought impossible. Her spirit is steadfast and eager, her passion and desire are beyond doubt. Her dedication is fierce, sometimes enough to hurt herself with. And her hair, sometimes, is just for me, even if disguises it with selfies and poses because she isn't sure I know.

So when it's not me, I fear no loss of love and know I'm not alone.But it reminds me that even perfect love isn't always a perfect fit.Her body that I worship as beautiful and that she shares so generously with me, that she has labored to sculpt for my pleasure as much as hers, still has limits that no amount of love overcomes. It's not a blame, or a flaw any more than gravity is a curse, or than shadows are a sin of light.

So when it's not me, I am not aching over a lack of her, I'm wistful for the shapes that she can't fulfill. As she finds fulfillment in friends, I ache to know the validation that comes from beyond her. No, not for the first time, just.. again. Maybe more often than alternating equinoxes, but even Hailey's Comet can brighten a dark night.

The best way to keep a small blanket warm is to wrap yourself around it, and bundle the warmth within your grasp. But sometimes my back is cold. Skin communicates directly, beyond the confines of words. We touch to heal, and surely she heals me, but her touch comes in frail hands and tired joints. Her mind is a sculpture finding it's form, and shows every sign of blossoming into a masterpiece in its own right. And while I'm happy to be the light guiding her on that journey, and she surprises me often, it's nice to talk with level eyes on deeper things, and she can only keep on her toes for so long at a time.

A comedian I listened to recently, a funny and sincere one, joked about his kink being "consent". How the act of sex was the second most stimulating part of sexual bonding, and that simply getting a Yes was enough to fulfill him. Because he was good at what he does, the room laughed with him, but there was a flash across his eyes that even the best aren't great at hiding, and I knew. It was funny, but not because it wasn't real. His joke was no subversion to my experience, it was a clean and succinct summary. And like many comedians, I suspect he had to say it as a joke because he didn't have anyone off stage to tell, and it couldn't be left unsaid. My stage is tinier, and I don't think people expect to laugh here.

What do they come for? What do I have to share besides my tender soul? Maybe my art, maybe my mind, and if I listen to her, maybe even my smile sometimes. Often my wisdom, as delicate as it can be to share it. But as earnest and real as those things are, I market them too. I try to use them to open minds, and hearts.. and wallets. I try hard not to push the open hearts into reaching for their wallets, I think it's incredibly important to have friends independent of fans. But does this posture keep a curious heart from approaching out of concern for a tight grip on their purse? When I sell my emotions, does loving me feel too close to buying from me? Do they know my heart doesn't charge admittance?

When I'm appreciated for my strongest qualities, is there enough person there to see the lonely heart aching to be held? Do I extend beyond the art and the stories I share? Do they cast a light on or a screen over the confused human who's still wondering why the big hugs had to evaporate. If you're keeping up with me, god help you you've followed my sorrow for longer than most. But the last time I had certainty evaporated one day when I was supposed to be having fun. While the faith I had in that mooring was replaced with a sturdier anchor, I can't help but feel that I'm too far from the dock to pick up any passengers, and I miss cuddling up to the docks.

I've clawed together a raft from the debris of my last life. My old boat was solid, but it sunk all the same when the holes appeared. My new one is smarter, built out of things that float so even when I start to drown I can swim up, climb back on and keep going. It's colorful and makeshift, but I promise you it floats. And I know that this invite comes with a danger of getting a little wet, but there are seats here that don't have people to fit them. I'll even paddle to you if it looks like you're headed my way. But from where I'm sitting, anchored but not peaceful, becalmed but not calm, all I see are the currents that keep people from seeing me as more than a decoration. I don't hold ill will to those who float by, I am owed nothing for simply having desire, I am offering no prayers to a river god hoping for divine intervention.

But I am here, whole and complete as a person with needs greater than a like button or a simple encouragement. And while I KNOW my dinghy isn't the motorboat some people dream for, I promise if you let me, I can at least show you a different way to ride the waves. It's messy, it's exhilarating, liquid energy dwarfing us and daring us to reach out to feel it at the risk of  capsizing. But even if we do, I told you, it all floats. When we surface, whether its to our own hands or others', the raft you know now will be there, and I'll be smiling, waving, and tinkering on it all the same. It's not for everyone, I know. But if you've made it through all of this and haven't lost all curiosity, light a signal, please let me know you're out there. I know under this many paragraphs I'm reaching a very small audience, but there's so much more to my heart than jealousy and loneliness. Sometimes it takes a lot of words to mean what you say without saying the things that you don't.

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