Your wild eyes.

Some days, it is all inexplicable—

What we do to ourselves, time and time again.

I think this as I lay on my yoga mat. 

I think, with a slight twinge of worry, that I might never fully understand, any of it, least of all you and me.

The room heaves a collective sigh.  Rain whispers a soggy greeting through the open window.  My body feels torn through, split open, agape and bloody. 

Even though I know I shouldn’t, I can’t help but dabble in what’s past.  It’s hard to ignore the path taken to get here, to this place, especially when that path is laid out clearly and freshly marked behind me.  Remembering who I was then, how these limbs felt, where your hand laid—it is the remembering that keeps us alive, within me.  And although you are dead to me, I still feel some driving need to give breath to our history.

I told the story of you and me, because they asked, because I felt I must explain myself. 

My yoga teacher said to me last night that the point in which we want to pull back and give up is the very moment we stand on the lip of transformation. 

“Change is uncomfortable,” he said, “and your ego will do anything to steer you clear of discomfort.  Come here, and have no ego.  Let yourself change.”

And as he says this, I finally get it. 

I came to you without ego or agenda. 

I withstood the discomfort; I held back nothing. 

And look—look at me now.  I did this—I changed.

You, with your wild eyes, with your starving eyes, still hover on the brim.