Perfect

Some days, too much joy wells up in you, and it seems so impossible but inevitable that everything you’ve ever seen, everything you see or don’t see now, is quivering with secrets to give you.  All the places you’ve been makes sense.  There is nothing for it but to skip and run, singing tunelessly under your breath all the while.  You could not stop bouncing if you wanted to.  Who would?  You don’t. 

It is the best afternoon to drive long miles over mountains lush with trees about to turn, a dancing fool even with your ass in the seat.  You are paying less attention to the road than is generally suggested, but you are invincible, after all.  It is contagious, you will do something insane tonight.  Why not make a spectacle of yourself, show them how exquisite it can all be if they will just let it.

She is too wise for you, keeps you tethered in.  The pace she sets is subtle, so you refrain from embarrassing her.

Driving back is good.  The thin winding ribbons of road become anonymous in the dark, you could be anywhere.  You are everywhere.  The bike path was like this at night, your light so weak.  If you hit a deer it will kill you, no question.  Slow down.  You don’t slow down.  When the bugs come thick you pedal faster through their gritty fog, striving, baptized in phosphorescent blood.  You want the whole world, you want it now.

Arrive, talk, they say you are glowing, then everyone else goes to bed.  A few steps out the door and you are away among trees.  The moon is so white it burns through the canopy and cuts sharp leafy shapes on the floor.

It is not enough.  Your soul itches, unsatiated.

Comments

[Bakerina]

Has anyone ever told you that you are quite the vision when you are feeling so springy? If they haven't, then they should. I'm just saying. ;)