An incomplete list of the things I am speaking of when I say thank you:
Solitude. The sweet and sharp slice of ecstasy. Teeth on bone. Roar of ocean. The soft space and those that hold it. Silver of space just before the fall, when surrender is inevitable but not yet in motion. Baking heat of desert sun. Whiskey burn. Rising incantation. Crashing rain. Blood moon. Building howl. Tangle of limbs in marshmallow bed – arms around them both – their heads on my chest. Boundaries. The knowing of my own edges. Orange oil and lavender. Amber on wrists. The paths of returning. The perpetual unfolding. The knowing and naming of what is holy. The dawn after the darkest nights. Mango and pineapple – juices dripping down hands and fingers and face. The moment right after, when everything is bare and visible. Agency and autonomy and the refusal of shame. The words of others that name my own truth. My feet making slow circles on the floor during the only dance that ever mattered. The open road to the sea and baptism by salt water. The ring that names my commitment to myself. The here and now. The literal and physical. This body. My body. In her fierceness and frailty. In her raw want. The way she bleeds and laughs. In the way she says yes and now and no and please. In her staggering hunger. The way she returns to animal, again and again and again.