As I draw in, she wraps her fire cape around my bare shoulder made of protruding bones and lies. I stutter to ask the occasional unanswerable “why” as I watch smoke unfurl from her rooftop crown. She has woven fine, single threads about me before I plunge into the heart of winter. She does not answer, she never answers, but I’ll listen to her silence this time. I’ll set time down and I with it, to pull warmth from her. I’ll stay put for a while, gather in, let “it” come. Whatever “it” is, I tend to frighten it away with plans, frenetic activity, real and imagined pressures. Little does she know my request is to only release the bits of shadow that have adhered to my flesh with this full turn of seasons. All the shit from last year I’m letting cling to me. Massive shit I just want to be done with.
I catch her swirling in the deep. I giggle as I watch her performance in the firey blue at the root of the flame. Can’t help but laugh at myself, still the awkward girl holding up the dance floor wall. From the deepest marrow of my bones, I want to take her cue. Grow stronger, longer, and dance.
The Thread Is Red 