Going south would be too predictable.
The limp worms in empty bottles, disintigrated by their harsh liquid homes. Chapped dry skin, parched tongues, early mornings and the eerie sound of the desert at night.
It's all been done before.
Let's go north, instead. We'll climb the parallels, seeing the early morning mist of our breath form in the air.
Let's carve our names into the tundra, letting our feet sink into the mossy ground.
Polar bears will guide us, and we'll teach magpies to talk.
Our legs knee-deep in rushing water, we'll catch salmon with our hands, taking care not to fall on the slippery rocks.
And each night, we'll collapse, satisfied and full, letting our bodies drift to the sway and dance of the northern lights. And just for that moment, we'll believe that forever has arrived.
You don't even like fish and yet still it's the most romantic notion I've fallen into.
ReplyDelete