Pass

This sahara is punctuated by one long stretch of road, snaking east to west, measuring the current of sand when it moves in hot, infrequent winds. It offers a direction, plants its axis like flag, claiming defiance in this vast place.

I am reminded of its uncertainty as I walk. It curves between sand dunes and out of sight. Reminds me of old cartoons that play the same background on repeat. Except for the occasional shrubbery, I am a victim of the heat and mirage plays with me. It seems I could touch the mountains, so small in the distance. Break up the sands to dissipate through my fingers.
Instead, the one stretch of tarmac road refracts heat, pushes it toward me from below and I am a pariah of avoidance.

There are people, shadows of pilgrims, on a similar journey. I walk alone. We infrequent beings have chosen silence for a time: a unity has crept up on us. It is as easy as me turning around to join you: changing direction, heading back. Could I take your hand perhaps? We do not know, either of us, what the other is running from. You, I presume, a band, or a wedding. I noticed only your guitar… would have to turn back, erase counted steps, to remember the dents of your face, the fingernails plucked from their skins, the stains from bleach on your neck.

And I am sure my ending is uncertain, I will walk til I run out of road. Not convinced of how distance works in spaces so untouched by human influence. Walk and count and presume their is a peace waiting for me.

I assumed of you the same when we passed one another.