I have had a massive case of wanderlust lately. It’s bad, guys. I have been feeling anxious and restless and caged. There’s that whole saying that goes something like we were meant to sprout wings from our shoulder blades. And all I know is that I can’t stay here anymore. I can’t stand still any longer. So I am doing something about it.
It was freezing this morning, and for whatever reason, it had me thinking about New York. And how it snowed in Central Park, such a brilliant white. I almost fell numerous times, and tree branches sparkled in the morning mist. Up and down the avenues we ventured, our breath dissolving before us. It took everything in me not to start a snowball fight with you – a spontaneous burst, like fallen stars and angel aura quartz. Clusters of flakes beneath Christmas trees of December 26. The paths were carved with flannel footprints and ice kisses. A piano playing softly when you took me into the Trump Building. And we scarfed down turkey burgers and ate so many sweet potato fries. And I couldn’t help but think what a sweet memory this would make someday.
I love this time of year. Poetry stirs deep within my bones. Inspiration does not flock with the southern birds, but chirps a sumptuous legato. Bitter tannins seep from fruitful bark even in the embrace of the howling wind. And I remain outdoors just to watch the clouds part for a blood orange moon – a jack-o-lantern sky painted with purple stars and frozen breath.
I wonder if he reminisces about that old-fashioned fireplace, made of stones and warmth, that smelled of forgotten forests and stoic pine trees. Does he still taste white chocolate whenever he smells the faint scent of caffeine? Does he know how his eyes shined as he rested his feet atop the lacquered benches, and how much I was falling for him amidst the snow and shadows?