I could swallow this city whole, brambles and weeds and prickly pears and tarantulas and hawks and wild mushrooms and plums and apples and rosehips and all. And I miss you. I could wash it down with the cool water cascading over graffitied rocks melted from mountain run offs that erodes these cliffs we’d walk on the edge of and balance sanity with anxiety. And I miss you. I could scrub the heart out of my chest with sand and salt water and pine cones and needles and put it right back in this barren chest and shock it with the lightning strikes that set the plains on fire. And I miss you. I could run bare footed through dew soaked blades of grass, tripping over stones and roots and tree trunks and angry ant hills to meet the deep blue that smacks against the limestone white and makes my heels skid. And I miss you. I sit on dirt and impress pebbles against my bare thighs and watch tiny fish jump and big birds swoop and dirt pool together from the wetness that slips from my face and I reach up and touch it and laugh. And I miss you.
Written next to you, in a small room. September 11 2018.
