myelinated pollination

naked yoga with roots broad, large, the only part of me that will ever surpass double D , firmly planted through the purple stickiness. exalted warrior, i reach beyond my tree.
last night with her made me realize that i don't really even like her anymore. dry dinner conversation bored, annoyed me. i have evolved beyond whatever we once shared. she no longer identifies. and she thinks i should take meds forever: to her, i'm that crazy. good thing, too, or she wouldn't have him. the irony astounds me.
this morning's weather hybrid dampened my face and chilled wetly through my clothes, made me think of spain with her and yearn desperately for that return: a time, place, mindset. two birds across the ocean, daring and free. she's up to my sternum now, and i know we need another trip. to help us converge.
so: sewing roots: the problem i have with this is that it makes me seem less transient than i generally like to be. i don't mind temporary, fleeting. i don't know that i need to have an idea of what grounds me to fall back on all the time. different things will ground me at different times. and my roots can be easily pulled and transplanted. the nourishment will also vary as a function of the state of my roots.
he nourishes me. he nourishes me with smirking eyes and homemade pizza when all i can manage is grunting, flailing, pouting in the kitchen.
i nourish myself. i nourish myself with strengthening limbs and intent focus, with burning quads and shaking torso, with clicking needles and the covers tucked tightly beneath my head.
she nourishes me. she nourishes me with open arms, ready lips and untamed dreams, unleashed to entice me back to youth.
those are standards, semi-static sources of growth and comfort, food for my roots. but to suggest that my roots form themselves statically, firmly, forever would be to deny the essence of my dynamism. very few things about my days, weeks, months, years are the same. i have no routine. and so the stove remains encrusted with tomatoey eggs. and sometimes i forget to eat.
he is beginning to have a taste of the chaos of my universe and he hates it, it drives him to carve out escape routes for himself, his self-time was precious, cherished and has now dissolved, leaving him agitated and fighting to be alone.
he understands. his life tops mine for chaos. but at least he has the money to make it worth his while. and he thrives on it like i do.
to a point.
and then i need a steamy room of my own.
i am forming a routine, but my innerself struggles against it. i say 6 and my inner self denies it, puts it off. i have to fight, force. 6,6,6 out out out upupupupupupup.
maybe i ought to have urinated on my principal's wall so that my father would have considered military school for me. i need more discipline. catholic school obviously didn't cut it.
so, a goal for the new year is the development of discipline.
and to care less about the size and shape of my breasts and more about the size and shape of my mind.
and to complain only when it is absolutely essential, to recognize powerlessness and accept it with more grace, more realistic awareness, to enclose my lake of fire.
and to wear more red pants and completely impractical underwear under my scrubs, to subvert in small, silent ways.
and to storm out a path for myself: there, there and here.
and to set aside time daily for me. and him. and her.
and to have sex less in bed, underneath.
and to love more readily, easily, completely.
but there's still no masterplan, no architectural charting. i have never been good with drafts, preferring to edit on the fly.
my roots will fall into the ground with the remaining red bulbs, leftovers from his burial. they will creep and run, feeding secretly, unseen. they will intertwine with his and hers, braiding themselves into a stronger, thicker source of life for a bigger, better us. but they will still be easily dug, transported, transplanted. and each offshoot will grow more furiously for the strength of the entangled knot nestled just below.