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Which word is the most dangerous:
never or maybe?
Both are a doorway—
one open, one slammed shut.
A foot in the threshold,
suspended between the inhale and the exhale,
or the returning
from memory to moment.
boys in bars and
birds flying away—
beauty manifested by their absence.
A bridge to cross over.
She stands barefoot between the field and the forest,
toes crisscrossing the vines, exploring the extremities,
thriving as she does,
along the disturbed edges.
The ferns fill in, and their fickle fingers extend,
evoking an intoxicating invitation.
The monstera bow,
the orchids bloom,
the ripe fruits hang low.
And she knows,
like so many women before her,
“This isn’t my first time in the garden.”
One step forward.
Wayward light warms her spine,
the sweet taste already on her lips
held, however, in anticipation—
a doorway that is half-open.
It’s the most underrated of emotions.
For every Eve,
with persistently restless fingers
whose story is yet unwritten,
it’s the reach,
the tastes on her tongue—
not nourishment or satisfaction, but hunger.
And when the door to language closes,
it is her mouth that remains open
because no God,
is as powerful as knowing yourself.