rooting deeper.

I’m realizing that my problem may not,
in fact, be an inability to love stillness,
or a difficulty in being who I imagine
I once, perhaps, was.

In fact, it may not be a problem at all,
only a forgetfulness that weighs
on the senses and dulls the taste
of the life that licks my lips.

Who I once was does not exist,
and in fact I question whether that I
existed at all, because now
I am, quite simply, tired,

and rather lonely, but I’m lonely when
I’m being loved as well, so I know
that I’m tired not because of too
much activity, nor am I without company —

no, I believe now that I’m tired
only of complexity, the manufactured kind
that doesn’t realize that nature
is a series of patterns, fractals, repeated

in ever more intricate and beautiful ways;
and I’m lonely because these walls
are suffocating and I want more company
than people with screens acting as a

third-party, facilitating a connection
that, without pixels and data, could
root deeper. I want to mingle with your roots
the way trees do — beneath dark soil,

where, unadvertised, no hashtags, we embrace
and whisper secrets, exchange ecstasies
down where light is the electricity
between my fingers and yours,

where we drew it down from branches
full of activity, and now we’re
grounding each other, feeding each other,
forming a vast network invisible

only to those who look no further
than a mutual reaction to
the illusions projected by flickering blues.

We could be so much more,

and I am tired.

Come root deeper with me.

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