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Peanut Bag

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Why is it that whenever you fall hopelessly in love with someone
you suddenly and awkwardly desire to travel with them?

The reels move forward
And there you are.

Walking through central park.
A sack of half finished peanut shells hangs limply in your right hand.
cracking them with your teeth.
Together. .

The two of you.

Talking about where you’ve been and why the scar above your left knee
curves into a moon shape.
And he imitates a stupid British accent that’s supposed to sound like Ronald Weasley.

It doesn’t
You love him anyway

The scene changes:

Now half way across the world
in a small town named Pianchia
hidden in a shelf off the rocks in… Greece.

White washed everything.
Even in the night.

The two of you
Standing, this time.
His arms wrapped around your warm body
engulfed into the hole of his soul- the home of his heart
A lock to keep you forever to let you know that he’s
certainly not going anywhere

There you will sigh
Dusting your shoes off the red dust Santa Fe loves
to cling onto your un-suffocated skin with

and feeling a bit like two birds on a wire
constantly taking flight. One end of the line to the next.

It’s that leap of faith, the slightest movement that has the power to
transform both of your worlds.
Daydreams and actual dreams, a whirlwind of
foreign postage stamps.
Magnets with chipped edges to remind you of
the pale Sicilian vendor mans face when he asks you to pay him for one more.
The breeze and the way it makes your hair dance.
The best sunsets you’ll see west of Houston.
Humidity as a second coat of skin.
Open hands out a Chevy window
more scars.
Band-Aids,
and the left over bag of peanut shells that started it all.

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This is beautiful!

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