After Waking

I ran hand along the back I love, imagined I could see it, thought to myself, I am so beautiful, because I knew that I was that naked back, all that power, packed in underneath the shoulder blades, just waiting to come out from under the bone and fan, how I imagine the large, male gorilla, making the sound of rain with a handful of leaves, innocently, embracing his constant, silver-backed future, just before he becomes something like a hungry boulder, and then barrels through the branches he unknowingly loves, cutting deeper into his safe and wild world in a crescendo of green lightning. Like that gorilla, I suppose I confuse need for want, in those moments when I, broken and barely conscious, snap back the always changing landscape that I am into a static urgency, a kind of purgatorial lifestyle that prolongs fear of self-extinction in a blur of murderously rapturous urgency, until I know what it feels like to see back of my existence, what I once was, leaving me, what it means to love the jungle I know I will continue to abandon, and like that very frightened boy who becoming that jungle long ago, will continue to come back for.