I would dance to the cadence of your steady heart; learn its rhythm as fully as my own.
Or maybe I would drop my own thrumming honeybee heart into your hands and watch the way you hold it; all gentle calm and no sudden movements.
I would listen to your words. No not those, no small talk. Your real words. The ones that make their way up from deep within, fresh and nourishing, wild and pure; a wellspring of words straight from your source.
I would hold your head to the base of my throat, or maybe in my lap, while I traced my fingers the length of your spine; coaxing out and brushing away the slivers of your fear.
I would witness your awakening, your remembrance, your healing. Oh how I crave your healing.
But instead I stand transfixed, immobile. And like some great tethered beast, I can feel the weight of my spirit straining against the ties of your resistance. I beat my wings to tatters, like a moth, seeking the light held prisoner inside you, held prisoner from me.
I want to scream and shout and claw: Do you know what this is? Do you know who we are?
I want to turn the wild rumpus of my being loose on you. To let her shake you and devour you and leave you stripped bare. To wake you. To let her burn you to the ground so that you too can rise from the ashes of who you were, of who you thought you were supposed to be.
And now my ribs ache from holding my breath, from holding my frustration.
And my bones have turned to rust.
And my wings are broken by the weight of you.