Waiting to board, she looked up through the airport windows. Her eyes met the fog, now an old familiar, but no less unique or magic. She rested on its wisps and mystery, let the beauty seep from the folds of mountains, through her pupils and through her skin, to wrap her heart in its embrace.
She could only describe this feeling as what it is to be completely, simply, unassumingly, and humbly, held. As the plane took off, she felt as though she was leaving the bed of a lover far too early in the morning. The delicious memories still danced in her blood and in her breath, and gave her inspiration to join the bustle beyond the sanctuary of this room. Yet, this deliciousness was divine, and would whisper to her throughout her day, beckoning her back into her beloved’s bed.
In sleep and dreams we are renewed. Each morning the fog creates a buffer between dreaming and waking. She’s learned to collect those dreams, those divine kisses, those epic self-promises and hopes, wrap them in her sweater that she’ll peel off when the sun peeks through. Until then she holds them close, slowly introducing them to this world of waking. Every so often a dream slips from her sweater and plants itself in the land of living. As if holding them is enough to manifest, as if being held is all that she was ever looking for.