Protect These Precious Things

For a week, my hips bruise on the hard wood floor and I dream of a soft, king sized mattress.

The roosters and restless children rouse me long before sunrise and I yearn for a morning alone in peace.

I struggle with new words in new languages and long to engage in a satisfying conversation.

I devour plates of oily curries and stir fries and hunger for a fresh, green salad.

I sip rice whiskey and jones for a joint. I scratch heat rash and itch for a massage. I quit showering altogether and yearn for the woman-making pleasure of a simple, hot bath.

But now that I am here, nipple-deep in this Bangkok tower-suite tub, smelling hearth fire finally lifting from my locks and watching the water turn a dingy shade of brown, a bitter sweet nostalgia steams up these mirrors. Remember the ginger root tea? Remember the soft mountain earth underfoot? I don’t want to let go of the wrinkly elder man’s Buddhist prayers above my bed. What about the shooting stars I was the only one to see? What I wouldn’t give now to imprint these moments into forever – I’ll take the flee bites, just let that kitten find my sleeping bag and purr herself to sleep next to me.

My lather looses momentum, and I have second thoughts: as if I can somehow keep a part of this world with me, so long as the red dirt around my toe nails remains.

Protect these precious things.

  1. Don

    March 25th, 2015 10:05

    Simply beautiful.


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