willful nomad

i will wash these dusty feet
- tired from steps and missteps -
and when they're clean enough,
i'll put them to bed.

give me to the storm
feet buried arms wide like i could hold it all
like i could stand against the ocean's dregs that ply at my calves
and let the wind suck the howl from my chest.

we are memories,
pearls strung on sinew draped and woven over someone else's hands.
we finger each bead in passionate fits of nostalgia,
catching only our reflections in their shining whiteness
and hoping our teeth are strong enough to tear the tarnished from the lines.

look, if you pause long enough you can see which ones i've polished.
i've polished them for you.