She slips into twilight like silk on warm skin,
a woman who’s learned the shape of her own desire.
Airports hum beneath her feet,
and somewhere between gates and stars and galaxies
she remembers she is fire—unclaimed and unfolding.
The world touches her gently at first—
a whisper of sea breeze at the nape of her neck,
cobbled streets warming the arches of her feet.
Every place she steps feels like a query,
every sunrise, an invitation she answers with breathing.
In dim lit pubs, she tastes the night slowly,
letting new cities linger on her lips.
She trades glances with strangers
the way others trade souvenirs—
soft, fleeting, yet leaving an ache in her pocket.
She loves the ache.
The sweet pull of possibility in her chest
as she traces her fingers along maps
like they’re secrets whispered against her skin.
Loneliness doesn’t frighten her;
it’s just another rhythm to dance with.
And so she moves—
a poem written across continents,
a woman who knows herself by the paths she dares to follow.
Her heart, slow-burning and restless,
is learning that sometimes desire isn’t a person at all—
but the world itself, opening beneath her.
Because I suddenly feel like writing again. . 🙂
It’s been a couple of years since I visited Lisbon to see my gorgeous friend Riyal and explore the cobble streets. This beautiful city should be in everybody’s bucket list.
The Restless Firefly 