I am deep deep red. I am thick red. All red. She red. All of her tones and sister hues. We are dark umber meets burnt siena. Adorned in ochre, sage, and an enchanted rich purple. My oranges are red, as are my yellows, greens, browns. My constellations are traced in an inky sticky black. That kind of black so rich and thick––full of worlds we know but haven't experienced. The black of space, open space. That black capable of holding the sun and the moon and all her stars. A black that reaches into galaxies, connects souls, sits between me and you. That gooey, honey black. Dark from soaking in all the sweetness of the companion futures my friends are dreaming up. Black that rises from the page. Black of mystical dimension. Black teeming, overflowing, ready to be born.


I am a celestial body, a radiant composition of stardust and water, a body of possibility, an indeterminate wonder. Moon and sun are parts of me, all of me, mother. You can see our stardust sprinkle in the sky, in my eyes, in my laugh, in the way my friends hold me. In the way my ancestors guide me. You recognize it in me and I see it in you. When our sparkles mix, pulled up from our stomachs, and out our throats at the force of our cosmic atoms' attraction, they tumble out love songs, poems, adorations. We choke on the pleasure, lock eyes, catch our breath and giggle. ‍How lovely we are as stars. How blessed to be in constellation.


And how delicious to be here. In body. With toes tangled in soil, arms braided in trees, shoulders splashing in seas. Our roots are intertwined in each others stories, in the love that binds us as we float across geographies, wandering, wondering, marveling at our home. Adoring here. Wanting to care for her and our and mine and your body. Wanting to know, I listen. I put my ear to your chest, the other to the Earth, I put my hand on my stomach, I fold open my legs, a loop connected in feet. I open my self from under, feeling into my wombs: where I came from, where we are, what I contain. I listen to Femininity. To her song, to her cries, her weeps, aches, whispers, and screams. I feel all of it: the pain is in my shoulders, the fear in my chest, the want in my stomach, the possibility in my ovaries, the power in my legs, the knowledge in my feet. How divine is this container? This vessel of magic, fleshy machine, blood-powered computer.


A program of multiple personalities, mutating logic, and evolving languages. Unpredictable but probable. Our worlds grow from seeds. Tended to and shaped with each touch. There is no strategy for how our world will be, no definition or parameters for what it must. Our world is this, is here, is coming, is made as we are. We know what comes because we intuit whats next.


For now we linger. We drool over the color. Oh my, the colors! The richness, the saturation, the plentiful hues of this beingness, of this love we practice. We linger in our material, in practicing our shapes, in knowing each others curves, bumps, beautiful edges and fluffy plush. We lay back and watch the clouds cause surely they are watching us too, laughing at these shapes we love to decorate.


And what about when we weep? What do the clouds wonder then? Do they wish to weep too? To soak us in their waters, pour over us, make seas for us, waves to carry us back to shore so we can hear them as they whisper with abandon their love, their wishes and dreams for us. I think they are welling, overflowing with want to tell us how much the universe loves us, how all the stars talk about you when you sleep. How they cheer you on and want for you, celebrate all the joy in you.


And so we unfurl. We sprawl open in each others laps, throwing our stomachs to the sky, heaving out rivers, washing our grief into Earth. We know she hears this, holds this mourning. And so we hold each other. We wrap around Friend as she shakes, as she trembles, as she falls apart. But its okay. Because we are here. Wrapped around. Keeping any important pieces from falling out and getting lost in the mess of our toys and colors strewn across the floor. If something in Friend needs to die we let it. If something needs to be born, we nurture it. And after, we hold Friend.


Friend and We and I and you, we pick each other up, wipe each others' cheeks. I wipe your tears, and I hold your chin. You smile and I see the stars in your eyes again. Wondrous constellations.


We walk together, hand in hand. We jump and we frolic and we gallop down the grassy hill. We come palms to Earth; she’s been listening this whole time. As our grief sinks into her layers, the oil of her own bubbles to surface. We cup the oil in our hands, splash it over our heads and rub it into our arms. This alchemy of mourning, this magic of women, material of universe, the contents of life. ‍Stardust. You. Me. Us. I. This.