By Neena Grewal, TIWP Student
I am not a gentle soul. I am not the field of flowers, but the skittering bugs and wild songbirds surrounding it. I am not a tranquil sea, quiet and deep, but the raging waves miles above the sand. I am not a jar of iced tea on the porch deck, but I am the laughter rumbling deep in someone’s chest, the music crackling from the radio.
I will not fall into any relationship. I will kick and scream and kiss you until the sky sets and we settle down to sleep, ready to repeat it all in the morning. I will push as long as you pull, let you drag me to the other side of the earth with your warm hands and soft smile. And when you pause at the foot of a mountain, we will switch roles until we’ve made it over together.
I am not a vacation, or a white picket fence. I am the worn leather seats of our car. I am the racing pulse in the lines of veins running under your skin, or the curve of your lips when I hand you a ticket, round trip, heading everywhere.
And I am not easy. I am the eagle and her prey, the deer and the shotgun. I am flighty, eyes flickering, lamps buzzing. I am the sound of pleasure and frustration, of scissors snipping hair, and heat shouting through the vents. I will run and jump and twirl away from your outreaching hands until I lay forever at the base of a fruity summer tree.
It will hurt, our romance. With every rosebush comes a bundle of thorns. And so we’ll tend our garden, hand in hand, drinking in lazy sun as our fingers mingle among the blushing petals. And if we prick our fingers snapping the stems, who are we to complain about our sweet smelling rose?