I’d like to write about things I love, things that make me feel like my true self inside. Wellfleet. Cape Cod. The ocean. The beach. Croissants with real butter. Dark strong coffee. Strolls along the seaside. Cracking open a bottle of chilled white wine in the kitchen, as I lay out my mis en place and begin to cook. Jazz in the background. Chet Baker, or Coltrane. Ella or Billie. Apron with dusty flour. Sitting in the corner by the window, reading and pausing and reflecting and reminiscing, and reading again. Sipping water. Dancing around. Dreaming of what’s to come. Thinking of him. Playing with my babe, his bouncing blond curls reflecting God’s light. Sunshine on my face. Birds chirping. Smelling salty sea and feeling the humidity in the air, knowing I am close to shore. A cool, pleasant breeze. Sex. Satisfying, soulful sex. Laughter and fun. Energy and vision. Poetry, watching a great film or show, eating shellfish and meeting someone new. Seeing art in person. Feeling a sense of calm, peace, community and spirit abound. Small town life. Quality life. Urban experiences. Travel. Rattling cages when needed. Justice and advocacy and passion and empathy. Real talk. Smart talk. Kindness. Observation. Speaking with someone who is as equally interested as interesting. Amazing conversation. Knowing in stillness. Appreciating the pause. Feeling the weight of the quiet like the headiness of a garden gardenia, white and thick petals; a fragrance that knocks you back.
A look.
That look.
A kiss.
Those lips.
My voice.
Inside.
Comes out.
savannah says. 