With Your Feet in the Air and Your Head on the Ground

If we were tectonic plates, you and I would be two major plates inching towards a complete superimposition, rubbing against each other. What are we doing? I don't know, but it feels good to be a part of something larger than myself. 

I remember being quite infatuated with a woman I knew from California. I don't know how many times we imagined fucking near the edge of a canyon, the stars witnessing our transformation under a moonless night, or penetrating her vagina with my tongue while adrift on a tiny boat in Lake Tahoe. That was our plan: to fuck in every destination of our cross-country trip. Sex and geography and the logistics of travel and body movements all became elements of a mathematical formula we invented. We never had the chance to realize that plan, but she's still out there driving across the rugged landscape of my mind.

Before she told me about what happened to her as a child, I didn't think it was possible for me to feel helpless. I wanted to murder the people that violated her innocence. I imagined doing horrible violent things to them and juggling that with thoughts of embracing her until we became pure angelic light. But I couldn't do anything. What happened was ancient history--history that haunts her like war memorials--and it wasn't possible for me to fight specters. 

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How is it possible that we share the same land and yet be complete strangers? The muddy soil my sneakers depress is connected to the warm sand you bury your feet in when looking at the ocean. The distance between us doesn't matter. We are connected by the earth we stand on. Tap morse code on the ground and I'll press my ear to the sidewalk to receive your message. I'll always listen to your stories. 

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