I discover her when a song pumping through the tiny white headset pulses right through my ears and into my veins, exploding with so much joy that I can’t control the dance that echoes out.
I hear her when a hobaneng comes out instead of a why.
I feel her when I slip my calloused feet into those Chacos, still dressed in African dust.
I attend to her when there is a show on the DVR or a movie of the year to be watched but I slip into the sheets and into another world in yellowed pages full of glorious, mysterious words.
She is there when I stare aimlessly out on to the robust First Avenue and pretend it’s a dirt road and those cars are sheep and their horns are the one-tone tune of a herd boy.
When I cover my arms in bracelets and refuse to leave the house without earrings.
When I reach for my journal to be the life support.
When I stand in mountain pose, my hands leading me into prayer.
When I tell any story that means something.
When I answer question about my pre-DC life.
When I turn to beans and rice for dinner because it’s comfort food.
When I can stare at my flaws and say, “I love you, beautiful.”
Every time I look down at my wrist and see her name etched into my skin, forever.
When I breathe before the anger spits up regret.
She is with me, always. Not subconsciously, but a spiritual Guardian Angel. I’ve been scared that she left me, living in an exhausted worthless shell, but she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She just asks that I have faith and hope and belief and love. Even why I don’t, she will never leave.
Keneoue, she is me and I am her. Forever.
I wrote this on the metro one day. I guess it’s a poem. I don’t know. I thought about editing or expanding it, but I am going to leave it in its raw metro form.