Last night, we were two sirens whose somehow singular gravity center pulled with enough force to deafen even Nikola Tesla’s cousin’s great-grandson. When you and I sit side-by-side, I vibrate higher and sink deeper at the same time; I get so wonderfully lost in the vision we become, like a fully embodied desert mirage.

There is a street in Tallahassee with particularly great porches, perches with profound potential. I used to drive to work, starting when all of the adults were just ending, on this less-crowded street. I used to wonder who sat where and why they chose that spot and what kinds of thoughts came across them in the heat of the day.

I used to think that maybe someone who had recently died used to sit in that very rocking chair and so now, that chair is reserved for their spirit. And now, I think about how that rocking chair used to be new. And it will never again be new.

Sitting across from someone is altogether different from sitting next to them. Just as it is vastly dissimilar to sit on a blanket atop the white sand and to sit on a worn barstool. Sprawled on a couch, legs crossed and tangled, feels worlds apart from a straight back and a dress too-tight around the ribs.

My point is

I tend to look away from people when I search for what I want to say. I don’t mean to avert your eyes. It’s just that I must involve myself in myself, I must retract, if I am to find the words. and I promise I will return to you when it’s your turn to talk. but I would love if we could sit side-by-side, so that looking forward and away from you is the default and looking to you at the side takes intention and effort so that I can

choose you when I choose to.

I think this is the romance of the shotgun rider — we are near to each other but to look at one another takes a turn of the head

which is an extension of the whole spine

so really, the whole body is involved in our interaction when we sit side-by-side.

What I really mean is

we are allowed to have private lives. we are allowed to sit next to one another and not talk. we are allowed to go for years without addressing what you’ve said to make me upset in the past. we are allowed to just be here for one another. and we are allowed to text instead of call and we are allowed to do the thing that doesn’t feel like enough because sometimes, enough is all we’ve got

and we’ve got to make the most of what we’ve got

I have been buzzed on the concept of vulnerability for quite some years now. I slurped it dry, really, when I became a self-proclaimed “vulnerable leader,” swimming in a pool of sour righteousness cloaked in humility, like milk spoiled rotten but still white.

My exaltation of vulnerability as the ultimate, take-back-the-power, stick-it-to-the-man, secret ingredient to great leadership has maybe exonerated me from my duty to myself, my duty to my inside life.

I am thinking that maybe there is room for mystery. And perhaps there are things I can think and not say. And there is space to dance by myself. And there is room to daydream and there are things that are only meant for me.

It is okay to sit across the table from someone, many someones, and stare them in the eyes and tell them the truth or the half-truth, even.

I think that’s integral,

Actually.

It is also okay to sit right beside someone at the bar, hold their hand, look forward and not say a damn word

and sip a drink

and not say a word

love can exist within and beyond these scenarios

xx

Until You Know Better

Just some orange wine, really

and also maybe some time near the water, looking for sharks

oh! and a good sweat!