warm night wander through the city mountain park
dance party booms loud on the slopes
we * watch
we don't join in
but we run up the hill to the beat
a woman is dancing alone in the grass and we share a smile
I wonder if she is like me
participating in parallel within the comfort of her solitude
far enough away from the too much
to make it plenty
it's not a disorder
there's nothing disorderly about my hypersensitivity
as I observe and absorb the body language of the bees bumbling in the roses
or feel the vibrations of the trees as much as the rhythm of the rave I've left behind
it's not a disease or defect or dysfunction that I can pick up on your emotions from across a room or communicate with dogs, crows and cats like a witch plucked out of your favorite fairy tale
it's most certainly not a deficit
it's a gift
one that never fit in the box it was brought in
for no box
could ever
encompass it all
* "we" refers to me and Pilot, my dog, not "we" as in me and the incessant voices in my head turning every experience into poetry without any regard for my desire for silence and to be in the god damn moment once in a while
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