An Accounting and Reclaiming

It was summer and we were in a heatwave and there was push and pull and back and forth and neither of us knew what we were in for. He said yes then no then yes again, and I stood witness, allowing the unfolding instead of directing, managing, forcing. Allowing what was to be to be and so it is.

The walls stayed up even as they caved in.  There was fire, so much fire and so much air to feed it, grow it, make it more and bigger and consuming.  But more than that there were roots and earth and depths.  And in the earth and depths we found each other and ourselves and what a sensuous kind of witchcraft it was.

The fire never raged but it warmed, it cleansed, it made us holy and wholly ourselves, melding into one and then separating back out into two, Goddess and Demon, God and Angel, shapeshifting to our own rhythm allowing the slowness, the lingering, the unfolding.  

I had missed his arms. His little house on the beach.  His dog.  But not him.  I never actually missed him.  I’m not even s…