I Go To Seek A Great Perhaps, as That Is What I Was After Too

The days crack like porcelain under the heel of my wanting. I am a spine of restless birds, feathers slick with salt and early light— my mouth tasting the metal of doors I have not opened. They ask me why. Why walk without a destination? Why carry a compass if you don’t believe in north? I tell them— the road does not need an ending to be worth taking. Some skies are meant to be looked at, not arrived under. I keep moving because stillness feels like rust, and the wind has a way of remembering my name. The Great Perhaps is not a prize— it’s the taste of rain before the cloud bursts, the echo that lingers longer than the voice. If you need a goal, call this my goal: to know how a streetlamp hums at early morning, to count the freckles on a stranger’s knuckles, to find out if the moon is the same shade of bone in every city. I have no anchor, only her pulse like a lantern in my palm. We are marrow and tinder, always burning toward a horizon that refuses to hold still— and I love her for it.