I hear her calling to me; the world.

I hear the crashing oceans, and the salted air. I hear the heat in the back seat of the yellow taxi, and the suitcase the size of myself.

I hear salt forming on the top layer of my skin, white dust on brown burns. Honey on fresh yoghurt. Books bent by the sun, warped by droplets of water that drip down my neck. A motorbike off in the distance. I hear the things that we’ve been denied, the life we’ve missed out on, the wet world laid out in front of us.

I hear the broken conversations with Italian men I didn’t get to have. I hear the cheap, overused, wine glasses on those wooden tables, and I hear my hair in their hands.

I hear it all, the whispers, the moans and groans of the life out of reach. She’s sitting out there, topless and dripped in oil. I can see her, I can hear her now, but I just can’t touch her.

I know she’s out there with her legs wide open to every hot, saturated, story of living. I know she’s teasing me and it’s killing me.

When my wings are untied, when I can fly again. I will devour her. I will sacrifice it all for sunburns, 15 dollar bottles of wine, and the haze of a new set of memories.

When those creaky golden gates open, I’ll open my mouth as wide as I can and I’ll let the world shove her berry-stained fingers down my throat until I choke, on living.