Soar

A song sang by two.
A breath of two.
Voices that create a heartfelt tune. 
The space between.

Life.
Death.
Living. 

Sinking into each other,
falling slowly,
swimming in flight.

When eyes close and it's not black.
Giving in and giving out.
Discovering all the corners.
Fingertips.

A recipe of life:
1 ounce of pain,
5 tablespoons of desire and lust,
1 cup of smiles,
half a teaspoon of fear (optional)
mix, blend, beat with memories.
Spice with lips, hugs, caresses.
Fingertips.

This all sounds very amusing, this all sounds very clever, but what is the true recipe of life and living? My biggest fault has been trying to figure it out; sprung out from the mind,  the rationale, and what I have been taught to follow as a life.  
A life of what? A life of success? To whom? To what? For what? For whom?
Recipes, steps, instructions, dots to connect, lines to fill, answers to circle.

Moments of clarity, those moments when you are just flowing. And you feel it.  Feel it with the wind, with the sun, with your hair, with your neck and your hands.  There is no struggling, there is just game. Playing the game, surfing, traveling, rocking, singing, dancing, shouting.  

The butterfly of life and death. Both wings carrying you through. The limit is so subtle, so preciously frail, delicate. It flutters together, and this capacity of living is the same capacity of dying.
Live a little, die a little.

Live fully, die fully. It is absolutely inevitable.  
               Yet, soar.  
                    Soar.
                          Soar.
                                 Soar.
Take flight, lift up, and fly to the sun to get burned. 

Melt your skin,
ache to the bones,
and become fertile ash, bountiful soil, food for newcomers.

Soar.