Somewhere in the mountains of Tennessee, I forget who I am.
Dropping between peaks, we mirror the sun. Amber light hurtles through each crevasse, blinded and blinding in layers of snow. The car flashes, a streak of steel.
I wonder where this girl is going.
We fly down a ribbon of asphalt as it unfurls through the valleys, descending past small towns, single homesteads. Lights in a window are eyes of a home on a cliff far above.
She could be anyone. Look up and marvel. These moves feel new; the air is strange.
In the parking lot of a gas station, my legs are impossibly long. I stand, taller than expected, and buoy on my toes.
Who are you? I ask.
My breath rises in clouds that follow the infinite ascension of twilight.
Who do you want to be?
Back in the car, we whistle upward.
Stars climb craggy surfaces, find their footholds in the sky. Beneath the black and open universe I sit, cradling a memory.
A fireside with an open chair, the chatter of happy voices. A promise in gentle words.
Tonight the mountain is a giant sleeping. I curl in his heart, deep in the pulse, and sleep between two streams. Snow falls on wind chimes outside my window, and silver sounds twist like a dream in the night.