She isn’t a place you arrive at. She’s the thread between stitches, the whir between tracks as the record spins; a different type of needle but her tongue still sharp nonetheless. She isn’t the warm relief of a down blanket after a long journey, her demons dancing between the feathered sheets and pillows. No, this one is made of the persistent ache in the arches of your feet that carried you down that cobbled path to begin with. She’s the nudge from your nervous system to breathe, the audible cry to retreat when you press your tender soles to flame. She’s a reaction. She’s loving in action, in defense, in resistance, and defiance. She isn’t something you settle into because there’s a restlessness in her. Just when you think your feet keep pace with hers she skips or dances or runs and it’ll never be you to catch her. She lives in the scent of a match just shaken out. She’d dissolve into the breeze and no one would know the difference between her or the dusty sunlight passing through the kitchen window.
Originally written June 3 2017, on the beach at Lovers Key.