Old Soul

I’m an old soul because when I hear the crashing of waves against rocky shores I don’t think of the percussive rhythms of the place I’m at but travel from this coast to Santorini, to Okinawa, to Naples, to Brindisi. I see octopi strung up on sailboats with the backdrop of whitewashed buildings. I see tan, crumbling ruins with Lord Byron’s penmanship scrawled among marks left by ordinary citizens. I see countless lovers on rainy streets with green and white striped awnings, floral vestiges of spring falling to city streets and completely ignorant to their love. I see cobbled stone and burly men leading ladies into carriages to visit castles that boasted running water through the mouths of brass swans. I see humility.

I’m an old soul because on the rare occasion I actually lock eyes with a stranger I have that brief moment of knowing I’m sharing a pulse with someone that’s brand new or someone who’s lived many more lives than me. I’m an old soul because I see things and I don’t always speak. I’m an old soul because sometimes I speak too much. I’m an old soul because what my tongue has tasted has spoiled me, because I’ve tasted airs of foreign shores and dishes and lips and sweat.

I’m an old soul because the clock is striking midnight and the closest thing I’ve found to peace in months is a wet dress, a coastline, and a full moon with no one for miles on either side of me. I’m an old soul because I crave the white noise of the earth to drown out the voices and the alarms and the constant reminder of my groundedness to this moment in time, so I seek little times away from seal blue when I can steal away under a clouded full moon with waves crashing onto me and soaking the seams of my dress.

Originally written May 29 2018, Fort Myers Beach, FL

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