Rambling Roads 🏵

My heart once fluttered  to hear your boots rasp against the concrete. There was something so solid  and satisfying  about that sound. I remember one time driving  behind your motorcycle, watching the way your boots  tapped the ground  at the red light, such a gentle touch  for someone who has lived so hard. I felt my pulse leap to see you  from that angle, grounded yet simultaneously lifting  smoky off the street stretching tall  into the purple hush of the sky. I’ve been carrying you around with me  for a while now. Hearing your boots tap next to mine  when I walk. A hint of your elfish smile  pressed into my mind and your Aztec face in flame  when I close my eyes. I could still feel your hand on the curve of my back as I suck in a quick gasp of air. Hear your raspy voice in my ear when I drift off to sleep. Imagine your lanky body towering above me when we kiss, ...

I LOVE the idea of hot flashes. What an amazing metaphor! Moments of rapturous heat tumbling entwined, eyes locked, body intimately tangled in the messiness of the present. Peeling off clothing, standing bare chested, open to receive even the slightest relief of a breeze. The sensation of my muscles blazing warm, Pulsing with passion, so limber and agile suddenly so sultry I smile, overflowing with life until sweat seeps out of my pores. Releases the pressure, Cleansing like soft rain… Then comes the chill of being wet and exposed. Piling on blankets, wrapping a scarf snug around my neck chills rattling my bones, brittle the skeleton of unanswered questions the loneliness of cold. Nothing seems to soothe the sting of time marching across my skin My well-worn heart. Sleeping with death, my most reliable companion. The only one that doesn’t leave as the morning light permeates my room. Her hand to hold as I pass through thi...

Driving through East Texas ghost towns I swerve through traffic tapping my ring on the steering wheel to Natasha Bedingfield’s luxurious voice. Responsibilities and roles drip off me like discarded clothes the farther I get from my well-oiled routine back home. As I sing and sway and occasionally glance at the glowing map on my phone calling me out to this remote country get away, my eyes focus sharp on the twisting road before me but space simultaneously softens like butter left out on the counter in summer And the knife-edge of my mind melts heavy, cutting through time as it swirls into form like a wraith rising from the pavement. I can see through the layers like overlapping swaths of color on canvas as I drag my nails through the paint. Old rickety houses dot the banks of the highway like skeletons jutting out of a past unknown to me, yet hauntingly familiar. History has a way of shining through the present and sticking to me like papier-mâché. My...