she jostles under the vine serpents, knees scraping trees, green light bending onto her skin. she’s a dirt daughter shoeless, careless the breeze reinvents her smile.
she arrives
her toes press hard against the sidewalk, and she takes a clinical step forward her pale moon face begged by the wilderness to return.
on the other side of the street he bursts from the subway, his feet neatly clicking up the stairs.
his briefcase swings tightly on his hand his dazed green eyes scurry across tuesday’s bachelorettes and they fall in love at least a dozen times.
he arrives
when they stumble into the same civilization their eyes collide.
they could be blinded. or they could catch it. it would run under their skin like voiceless hummingbirds awakening their architecture and electrocuting their blood.
yet love doesn’t just happen to to the yin and the yang, or the bird and the bee.
people aren’t perfect puzzle pieces.
love happens best to the disbelievers, to the fighters, and the skeptics. it happens to those who know that in order to make a spark, you need some friction.
it’s a howl of wind: constant and spontaneous. it can vanish and evolve: always new.
it can braid lives together like a man with green eyes and a woman with a pale moon face.
maybe its all been done before. but there’s something about the way he juggles a sentence on his lips and how her face rearranges into a smile that seems new.
the story doesn’t always sound like this but humans are like destinations intersected and scattered life comes and goes and sometimes