nikita and i (cappadocia)…

a valley of swords cut the sun until it bled a merciless red
until it became a valley of roses at home with the dust
and heat turned to honey (the colour of nikita’s mane)
we made our way through fear and trust; two beasts
demanding freedom while not knowing the rhythm
of surrender

if you tell a horse not to run enough does it eventually forget?
nikita shook her head, always counter clockwise to the left
while i prayed we’d stay on this path of polished edges—
an untrustworthy smoothness; in another life i rode bareback
and the land was not so thirsty, the sky burnt instead of blue,
i remembered…

the chasm that didn’t end in the emptiness of the what if
and the inability to trust even though there was knowing
and the mercury that dipped as i searched your body
for warmth; we couldn’t have been closer and yet
the disconnect spanned three valleys
and hours

and maybe even days in that other life, crossing a loop
in single file, formed like two renegades fully fledged
within the emptiness, so what was the point of it all?
i’m not sure i’m any closer to knowing but it’s already
tomorrow and i think i’ll only get better
with time