I open the kitchen window

and lean outside into the clouds,

closing my eyes

as the sun becomes liquid,

extending my arms and fingertips

to catch the wind.

The way the cold rolls over me,

I’m taken back to Anegada

and the crisp of the islands breath as we ran

with airplane arms away from all our responsibilities.

We hadn’t known why we were running

or to where.

We just moved with the quality of convection currents,

absorbing the light from hurricane lamps

that hung in the neighboring trees.

I think,

running is the closest thing to time travel

that I may ever experience in my lifetime—

somehow, I become younger than I am,

younger than I was.