Amoeba

Love left, for dramatic effect, a little spore of gender a thousand traveled from a throat to a cave from the bottom of the ocean to the slickest treetop, and managed to understand the subtle minutiae of belonging to a definition. I am, it thought in circles, what I am and I am supposedly all of what I was and will be, and as such, there can never be someone who is me who is not me, I’ve killed with kisses, with desire but I am unsure still. It wasn’t difficult for it to feel devastated for the little spec of nothing, either in dustbowls and algae flavored oceans, about the many options and words spoken about its choices, for it chose to love across time and space, to go along with the breeze, a nameless breath of fresh air forever molding in a kiss from the top and the bottom and to bottom and to top, the infinitesimal. A dream always follows, that the words will be stopped, that the laws of made nature will be changed, and that it can move along from lip to lip and be judged accordingly in death and in forsaken life, just be remembered for having loved and accomplished nothing, and be burdened by nothing, and having fought nothing, instead just a simple feeling, forever tangled in a body and another body and then another until the right one was found, with no regards to the luck of appearance and mind. It knew that it had been born like this to create solidarity, across the spectrum, to feel nourished in somebody else’s home, and draw self-portraits away from poisonous betrayals and sharp-toothed specters, each a spec, a little molded creature, by circumstance, in and out of folklore, but honeyed and touched by divine grace, to belong and stay very acceptable.

A spore is a spore, it thought, but I am not a spore no more, I am no longer threatened by words, I have fought and suffered, and want to go to sleep. But it could not, it will never, for its very existence was the normal anomaly, hundreds, thousands, millions of it just like it but it couldn’t be normal, for it to be normal every kiss it had given, every hug it had received, every lovestruck, lovebreak, lovemusthave should have to be real, accepted, untangled, manufactured and very well consumed. There was no choice in the endless travel of a spec, a little lesser creature in the world of the lesser creatures worshipping things, rather than happiness and freedom. It slowly dissipated and was reborn, it struggled and turned weak, it slowly fizzled into joyous companionship and lamented its saddest, loneliest nights being carried away by the weights of watchful eyes, hammering rams bent on control and oppression. It held itself with force as hundreds of simple specs, watchers and defenders, helplessly did nothing and helped no one, inaction, when all it did was to live in action, the act of loving freely, of being left alone, to allow itself to care and be cared, moments passed, the trip endless collectively as amoebas, little molded hearts, disappeared one by one through the vacuum of time, a fate ever belonging, the kiss, a thousand gender embrace, licking, sensual, comforting, a simple wink enveloped in moonlight, where worries were of no more.