The couple at the airport couldn’t stop kissing at departures. Even when the cops told them to move, they clung to each other — kissing, talking, kissing again. He was the one leaving, but he kept turning back, his hands reaching for hers like a current still trying to complete its circuit.
From my car, I watched her tears glint like liquid diamonds. I felt myself slip into her skin — the ache, the wanting, the refusal to let go. I imagined the weight of his curls in her hands, the way desire can make time stall and then collapse.
For a moment, I loved them both.
For a moment, I believed in them.
II. The Reckoning
They weren’t young.
That mattered to me — the idea that passion could still burn in your forties without turning to ash.
Because the one who “loved” me loved me so much he cheated.
Loved me so much he punched me in the face.
Loved me so much he left me black‑and‑blue and convinced that love was a weapon disguised as devotion.
So yes — I’d rather have the passion.
The short‑term lust.
The fire that doesn’t pretend to be anything but fire.
Anything to wake the sleeping goddess inside me.
III. The Goddess
She is pure flame and wildness.
She wants to dance bare‑breasted under the moon, feet in the dirt, skirts chiming like distant bells, howling to her lunar sister.
She wants to let the blood flow, let it run down her legs, let it make pools of blackberry in the dirt beneath her feet
Her hair is a halo of honey‑brown curls, her bracelets catching the moonlight like sparks.
She remembers what it felt like to be touched with reverence.
She remembers the surrender, the power, the way the feminine can conquer without ever raising a hand.
Until someone worthy comes, she dances.
She waits.
She lets the moon bathe her in silver, lets the forest hold her like an old friend.
She is not lonely — only becoming.
