Hear me say, Better things will surely come our way...

The clearest joy
is the ceasing of great pain.
When the iron bell rises from the head,
when the clanging shock subsides along the nerves,
when the body slides free
like a worm from a hook,
how the putrid city air
bubbles in the lungs.
Light glides in honey over the eyes.
The austere ceiling is made of meringue.
The body uncoils, uncoils
wonderfully empty like a lily.
Breathing is dancing.
Dumbly and wholly
like the basil plant on the sill
I lift my nose into the sun.

Early early Marge Piercy. simple.

I loved my Nat more than the sun loves the grass on those first cool mornings of November, more than the breeze loved the backs of our necks as we lay under the awnings of an early fourth street dawn, watching the sunrise give a heart-aching kiss to the grime, softening the hard fists of concrete with warmth almost like her touch. I miss you, bebs.

And save your line about needing to be free... it's freedom without love.

They that dally with words may quickly make them wanton. Are you listening?