What the Wind Forgets

Walk toward a place not marked on any sign or map.

Ignore the ubiquitous highway invitations.

Instead, follow the road that smells faintly of rust and honeysuckle.

Count your steps until the numbers feel fictional.

Let your shadow choose the direction.

In the woods, do not leave footprints.

Step in the hollows deer have made,

And imagine their eyes watching from the voids between trees.

Feed your memories to the dark:

The house with the slanted porch,

the burnt edges of toast from a morning of regret,

The voice that called you beautiful without truth.

Bury them in the soil like coins you’ll never dig up.

You’ll know you’re close when language thins,

When the wind loses its words,

When your thoughts arrive only as shapes.

Breathe until even your breath forgets you.

When you are ready,

Slip into the space between memory and pure pulse.

Do not push.

Let it take you the way a tide takes driftwood,

The way Frost takes a glass.

If someone follows,

Leave them this single instruction carved into bark:

You will not find me here, and you may vanish trying.