Loving would be pitifully easy absent of a brain.

I'd be so brave unaccompanied by a mind. 

A dusty candle ignites upstairs and I countlessly make the trek to arrive

inhale

and do away with the fire. 

I had a dream that I screamed, lungs full of passion and lethargy. 

In that liminal happening

Boiled down to a wild animal, wounded and brave.

Why can't I scream in waking life?

Do I secretly yearn to?

Are the trees waiting?

Living has been a constant process of unclenching. 

Can I be a love that just is? 

Is a scream brewing?