seems like a word with negative connotations.
“Just stuff,” we say,
implying a nothingness, a smallness.
Inconsequential, that stuff
which fills our rooms and also our
memories and the unobserved moments
of our days.
This is the stuff of life
filling me out like a Build-a-Bear,
not fluff because without it
I’d hardly be huggable,
hardly be human.
Is the stuff my soul?
Even though you could pull it apart,
piece by stringy piece like stuffing
–not at all substantial–
and yet it’s all connected in soft cohesion.
A vulnerable way to live,
so squeezable and non-threatening.
An invigorating way to live,
as I cuddle up to the world
and she hugs me back.