like butter

delicate adjustments on the plane of the heart, intersected, perpendicularly penetrated, bated. never been so wholly aware of the presence i am in myself, of the power, flowerlike fragility, everything in between swollen and wet. finding myself in san francisco for a long holiday weekend. beautiful women, dear friends, chosen family, at least for the moment, at most forever. my roots have grown heavy and i've got one last plane ride before i unpack the brown & orange backpack, holy womb of my baggage in the interim between then & when. the calender betrays me, i hate that it's november, i love that it's november. it doesn't hold enough, that backpack. the trail of things i'm leaving behind me is wide and sacred and deserving of every sunset there is. i'm scared to be a vessle, a woman. i've gotta keep dropping 'em low, though, and trust that it's all just right.