Rönnäng

Find a familiar face on the familiar square, everything frozen in time except the worlds of wisdom that lie between you. Take the commuter bus out of town, past the throngs of people, see the city give way to rolling hills and late-summer greens, valiant flags braving the autumn chill even as the humans wrap themselves in more layers. 

A new house, a new promise, crooked floors and dated wallpaper, endless potential hidden within the folds in the old fishing village. Late in the evening, we bike down to the cliffs and dive into the water, no one there but the birds and one misguided jellyfish. The sun sets in that melancholy way it does in the North, just before the season ends. You pretend not to see it, revel only in the salt water on your lips. Bike home with a chill on your skin, adore a freedom you know only in memories, sleep like you never knew fear, 

there is something here, an answer telling itself to you in parts, you begin to piece it together,
believing at last
that you might.