stone-cold wild woman

Cigarettes burned holes in her complexion.  Eyes deeper in her head than they should be.  She’s not tired, but maybe she will be tomorrow, or tonight.  Callused fingers from poking the chest of giants.  A concerning cough that acts like an exclamation point on her laugh.  Pretty like something moving too quickly in the direction of the rocks.  Prayer beads scattered like buckshot.

I don’t know what her heart is like.  I’d imagine it’s too big for her chest.  The way I imagine it is thunderous, rippling across her bedsheets like a stone dropped into a still pond.  The engine works well, the fuel is generally overlooked.  

I happen to think she works off curiosity.  The human instinct to look around the next corner.  This is why she spends time alone.  There are people in her life, and there were before, but she likes to get out and look.  It’s harder to hold onto things when you’re always on the hunt.   She’s a huntress.  A wolf of a woman.

Her eyes are a little glossy, from smoke and old tears.  Skin softer than it should be considering the elements, the time, the thorns.  Scars for stories.  A long narrative that runs down from her scalp like a motorcycle trail on a map, hard pavement, short sleeves, hair in the wind.  She doesn’t hide the scars.  She’s thought about concealing them under makeup, but she doesn’t like the way it feels when she smiles.  

She smiles more than she laughs.  Thinks more than she speaks.  And goes more than she stays.  But she’s lasted quite a long time in this city.  It might help that she lives alone and works out where the noise doesn’t bother her too much.  Mostly it’s the cold of winter and the thick miles of trees that keep her here.  She understands that most people don’t handle harsh conditions well.  She knows, come fall, they’ll all bundle up and tuck away, leaving the woods lonely and magical and all for her.  Animal skin gloves and tall boots will keep her warm enough to make it back.

I’m always dreaming up magic women in my head.  I can hear their laughter.  I see parts of them moving around the city, but rarely complete.  They’re all looking for something.  I think it’s similar to what I’m looking for.  At least it carries the same smell. Adventure, newness, freedom.  

It’s not like these women don’t exist.  I piece them together, but I’m sure they’re out there.  Only they’re busy.  They’re out there, looking around corners.  Their faces are weather-whipped, lips broken from wind and cold.  I see glimpses of their smiles and hear old echoes of them in the proceeding coughs.  They move with grace.

The tricky part is that they don’t need anything.  They prefer this lifestyle, and maybe they prefer to be left alone.  I’m only hoping they’ll share those smiles, tell me a story, teach me one of their tricks for handling the wild and the cold and the lonely.  I’m not afraid that they’ll go.  This type of woman doesn’t die.  They disappear.  They ride horses way off past the horizon.  They’ve got mountains to move and more to climb.  

My only message to these magic women who exist out there in the wild is to keep laughing.  Keep exploring and continue to put freedom above comfort and security.  Know that love isn’t a compromise, but an adventure, a blind learning curve that doesn’t come with a manual or an answer sheet, and that the universe is the teacher.

It’s your honesty that keeps me moving forward.  Your stone-cold ability to look through discomfort at ultimate happiness.  It is because of you that I too seek freedom.  When the cold comes, when night falls, when all we have is the moonlight and the stars and freezing wind to navigate by — your instinct is the only tradition that keeps mankind moving forward.