She

Stace Rae
Stace Rae
Aug 30, 2019 · 4 min read

My longing for a woman.

Photo by Andrei Lazarev on Unsplash

She is my desire.

She occupies me to the point of distraction.

Lately, I’ve had one too many half-assed conversations, tipsy, with this intoxication. I’ve had one foot in and out of concentration. I can’t recall what anything was like, before she arrived, and I’ve lost track of time since she became the center of my sight.

I want her like I’ve never wanted anyone in my entire life.

I fall asleep thinking of her. She shows up in my dreams. She shows up as a sprite, a shaman, a healer, a woodland creature, a witch over her cauldron.

She shows up as a dancer; swirling, spinning, arms and hips undulating. She moves and all the colors of mercy slide from her spine like a mushroom dream, creating fields of flowers that move to her beat. She sways her arms above her head and pulls down the moon. She offers me a drink of it and transports me to other worlds.

In the morning, she is waiting for me.

Between the blades of grass, behind the silver shimmering leaves, she whispers secrets to me, as I sip my coffee. I cannot quite hear what she says. I lean closer in, still, the words seem coded. I seek the answers in her laughter, but she is laughing at me, and I don’t find it funny. She continues, uproariously.

But I want her. I want all she is.

I want how she stands with her scars like a bard with a good story. I want how she won’t allow herself to be diminished by frivolity. I want her conviction that her imperfections are an integral part of her beauty. I want how she conveys that her graceless bits amplify her authenticity.

I want her confidence in a crowd of no-one-like-her.

I want the way she coaxes a spirit of forgiveness out of the unforgiving, with her coquettish eyes, and boisterous laugh. A laugh that exudes, “Don’t fuck with me baby, I know you’re a softy under all the egotistical bullshit.”

I want her hands and how they gently lead the apathetic into compassion. I want her impassioned coaching of the fearful, that they can do the ‘thing’, be the ‘thing’, say the ‘thing’.

I want that kind of faith in humanity.

I want the security she has in not denying the present moment. I want the way she deliberately unfolds herself into trust. I want how she may choose to be cool and careful, but still soft and sensitive. I want her integrity to self, that never diminishes another, that she brings to all she does, without agenda, or hubris.

I want her expressiveness. I want the way she refuses to dilute or shrink it. I want how she expands without apology. I want the messiness of that. The disruption of that. The creative chaos of that. It does get all over everything, she really doesn’t bother to clean as she goes, but that’s part of her charm, why people lean in. They whisper and chide about her, but she’s so infectious. Before you know, everyone unfurls and begins creating their own mess.

I want the love she slathers around every rough edge. I want how she impatiently pours it into every nook and cranny, splashing it all over the place. She doesn’t care about criticism. “Feh!” She only cares about what is worth caring about.

She tags love on garage doors, in neon colors in alley ways, on the sides of trains, and beneath freeway ramps. She covers the homeless with love. She feeds them love. She accepts their love. She accepts all love. Even loves lost, that come back with an apology as an offering. She accepts the love, dismisses the apology, and simply asks that they stay. “Stay a while. Stay longer this time, if you can. Tell me your stories. Talk to me while I make us something to drink.”

I want that. Unabashed vulnerability. Confident authenticity. Fearless forgiveness.

She has learned, and she lives by what she has learned. She is present. The past is nothing but a teacher.

I want all of that.

I want how she shows up in the truth of her intensity and whatever that looks like. Whether it is painful, beautiful, disconcerting, inspiring, awkward, leveling; all of it is her living, and I want how she knows how to do that, with abandon, without the mind-fuck of “what will they think?” God do I want that.

She is my desire.

I want how she never censors her instinct to connect. I want how she doesn’t need them to reciprocate. I want how the only point of following instinct, for her, is honor.

I want how this has illuminated her.

I want the ability she has to read people like tea leaves, and how she carries the four elements inside her pockets, as a compass, from which she intuits where to go next.

I want her all-consuming must-ness. New words, new worlds, and all else born of this.

I want how the tone of her voice bestows redemption where it isn’t even sought as a consideration. I want that kind of presence, culled from awe-struck devastation, and hard-won reclamation.

I want her skin that smells like emancipation.

She is my desire.

She occupies me to the point of distraction.

She is the ‘me’ I long to be, looking back at ‘this’ version of me.

She is my becoming. She is my dream.

For now, she is a hope of me. The me I’m navigating toward. The me I’m preparing for.

The me, of my desire.

©2019 Stace Rae

Thank you for reading my work. Thank you for your support.

Stace Rae

Written by

Stace Rae

Writing through all the humaning. Learning, cringing, laughing, dancing, crying, expanding & contracting. Oh, and tacos. Lots of tacos.

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