Desire Path

There is a tired, broken line running from our bedrooms, miles and miles away. Along this line one might find bits and pieces of love worn passages, words tumbled from mouth into ear, mouth into mouth. There are brambles, thorns, thickets, puddles, mud pits, flower gardens, vast green meadows filled with birds fishing through the air, swirling about, disrupting the clouds. It took time to make this line, it took time to make it sturdy, to turn it into a well worn desire path. Then it took time to make it ragged, for spots and patches to grow back with feral life. We can remember the way if we dig deep into the soil of our minds, the seeds are still there, they are hibernating until they are again watered, cared for. The path will be one that doesn't fully seal, even when death kisses our breath away, even when our final moment is swept from this temporary body and ushered onto the next. The path will pass onto the next pair of lovers, of friends tangled in the romance of loving another person, in passion or in platonic enmeshment. The kind of enmeshment that happens only when two souls share a bond forged by walks under streetlights, dilated pupils, dancing in the flashes of thunderstorms, trailing muddy feet back to tents full of friends, hands wrapped gently, hands wrapped desperate for something to hold onto in a world upended by choosing illusions over reality, making them into reality, turning each other into small gods for a moment in time, a moment consumed with the existence of the other.

The path will grow feral. We will grow feral too. The land will never forget. We will never cease to remember. Even when our minds turn to old-aged mush. There will be some sliver of that time, some message in a bottle that will be revived with a slight glint in the eye. Michevious young, aching hearted spirits.

I will love you until I die.