I love you body, and I will do whatever it takes to help you live.
In doing so my soul can see;
in doing so, this thing called life can beat from the
red volcanic heart within my chest;
in doing so, love may emanate from the core of my existence, and healing, as I take wisdom from the world, may come to us, one and the same —
a form without separation — I, you, it, us, them, we, free.

I love you body, and I will do whatever it takes to help you live.

The day will come when we’ve had our fill, when the well of
thought has emptied and the ink’s gone dry.

When these eyes have seen the treasures of the earth and cried upon their beauty.

When these legs, despite the pain, the hurt, the cracks and burns we feel have walked for miles — miles of empty roads, bustling foreign streets, deep white sand and mountains of snow, and they’ve felt the weight of gravity —

I will still love you.

Despite your faults, my faults, which I have blamed on you.

To have a body, it often seems separate from the self.

I try to fix you like a car, instead of loving you like a friend.

I try to mold you like a statue, instead of marveling at your imperfections;

I wish instead of thank;

I push instead of feel.

I try to solve you like a puzzle, and I cry when I can’t, I cry when I hurt, I question if you’ll ever be the way you once were instead of simply watching you grow, feeling you speak and listening to you, as you become all you’re meant to be.

I’m here to listen.

Forever and always, I’m here for you.

Despite the age, and the wear, and the beating we have taken, I will love you, if only for the strength to smile to a friend, an enemy, a stranger, a child, so they may love their body too.

And when we leave these bodies and we enter eternity, we shall dance, and smile, and rejoice, that we had bodies at all, for they gave us the chance to play on planet earth.