prepositions and the back of my hand

You know when you spoon with a good friend or lover (or both), and you fall into a solid sleep? Not the hard sleep of exhaustion or the flighty sleep of anxiety, but the solid sleep that brings the most lucid of dreams and the freshest mornings? Your breathing matches, and no matter how one of you shifts, the other matches without waking, nestling into the hollows of bodies, unconsciously kissing the back of a neck, humming briefly to match frequencies. Your hair tangles with theirs, your dreams sometimes brush each other, and you know where to rest an arm so as not to harm them, not to wake them. Limbs wrapped around limbs, a complicated knot of comfort.

That is how I feel in this city. Walking the veins of streets, noting the celled bricks, exhaling with the wind. I blend with shadows, stepping with the city’s heartbeat, the BPM leaking out of clubs, the rise and fall of stories told on streets.

Being a child and swinging on your Dad. He grips your wrists and swings you up, you walk on his back, do flips into pools, never doubting his ability to keep you safe, to be prepared for a jump onto his back for a piggy-back ride.

That is how I feel in this city when I do Parkour. I am in and of and by this city. Prepositions explain relationships between two things, but how much love can you fit into two or three letters? Between? Within? Language – written or spoken is just lines and sounds shaped, trying to approximate life. Words poking holes in a curtain to let in points of light. Other cheesy metaphors that are as close as we can get to sharing an unsharable experience. Is my sky-blue your sky-blue? Do my synapses fire the same as yours?

This is me, just Being. This is me, Happy and Whole.