She sat beneath the branches of a sparsely leaved shade tree,
lost in some faraway fictional fantasy, entirely oblivious to my approach.
The young woman was making notes upon a slip of paper as she read,
and I wondered just what it was that held her so firmly.
I never did discover.
Her energy beckoned me from across the park, a shy and subconscious invitation;
no–a begging–as if her soul were gazing into my own and unfurling my deepest secrets.
I approached, stood several feet before her, and waited patiently for her to meet her eyes.
The seconds rolled into days as the corners of her lips rose in teasingly slow motion;
she lifted her smiling eyes in my direction, and something in me was forever changed.
She motioned with a glance for me to sit beside her, but I shook my head in polite refusal;
I offered her my hand and, as her fingers grasped mine, electricity pulsed through my every cell.
I inhaled deeply, attempting to regain composure, as I gingerly drew her up onto her feet.
I couldn’t help but notice the damp green impressions on her pale knees;
I couldn’t help but notice the dance-like grace of her movements, the static bliss of her expression.
I did not have words, nor did she. My mind raced as I contemplated mirror neurons and soul mates;
she was absorbed, surely, by wild stories of love at first sight and happily ever after.
The girl was charmingly askew, selectively but wildly excitable; giddy in joy and agonized in sorrow.
There was a beauty in her deeply connective being, in the energy that surrounded her.
Her existence seemed to make sense of the pervasive chaos that continually enveloped my life.
She held my hand in silence as we walked together, occasionally grinning up at the sky.
Though her mind was a seemingly unsolvable maze,
her emotions were as obvious as the stains on her knees.
I longed to wander alongside her for an eternity, regardless of where her path may lead.
I am beginning to see that she–after all our aimless traipsing–doesn’t have a plan.
Though, with increasing clarity, I am starting to realize that maps and directions are overrated.
Perhaps she is right, in that the stories of our lives are writing themselves;
in that all we can ever hope for, is to remain captive and never cease our questioning.
And perhaps–together–we know that all we could ever hope for can be explained,
but that we require no explicit evidence to support the electric energy of our knowing.