Gasping for air

It came to me this moment:
I feel like I'm drowning, and I'm not even swimming.

And memories of wild dancing in your desert air make it all too much
And I swallow this water, choking
Choking
And gasping for air.

I miss my friends.
The ones I don't know how to call and the ones whom I regard with such respect that sometimes I am too much in reverence to play.

I'll bet they think the same about me.

That is why we never talk.

We dance together though, and a lot.
In festival gatherings wearing borrowed clothes and smudged faces to ward off the evil eye.

I painted one on your forehead, then we smiled.

I must have loved you.

I could not have disappeared for two years,
I must have loved you.

And the earth and the fire and the rain drizzle down.
And I can feel our pounding footsteps on the hot sand.

The tented nights, the starry skies, the wonder globe of
Being in the tribe.

I don't see anyone from my tribe here
So I feel I don't belong.

Do they miss my dancing and my laughter as much as I do?

Turn the music off, it's making me sick.
Spinning me back in time to a me and a place that doesn't know where it fits in current me.

I got rid of all my festival clothing.
I wear black again now,
But this time because I'm in mourning.

I know a part of me has died, perhaps drowned somewhere in that desert.
I'm nostalgic and I'm terrified of my memories.

I'm gasping for air in the open field and I don't know which way to turn.

So I turn towards the water, the western boarder, the horizon line.
Since maybe if I stare hard enough I'll find myself flailing in the ocean, just in time to drown myself completely.

Mikvah'd and refreshed I'll aliven into me again, and then I won't shake next time I hear that drum beat song that I sang too many times before and I mean it when I say I can feel it in my body in my spirit and in my soul, and that is why it is too hard to handle now on the couch with my blanket and my chocolate chip banana bread.