There is a word.
I’ve been thinking about it. Can’t find it on the tip of my tongue. It insists on dancing, cajoling, urging me to name it out loud.
Yet, I search for that elusive word, and come up blank once more.
Come upon this beach, where lilting, sandy winds flare upon sun-parched face; lips drying, eager to kiss.
Come upon this hilltop fort, vertigo driving deep to my feet, making me tremble and yearn for stability, as eagles teach the lesson of swooping once again.
Come upon sewer grates, filtering light into dark, repugnant water, gone bad for the spoil of rotting rat carcasses. Gone rotten for want of finding free access to the sea; cleansing salt and endless opportunities.
There is a word.
I wanted to know what it was, what it had been, or even just what it is right now.
Maybe even what it will be next.
Yet, it dances and dances. Twirling and twinkling just out of reach.
What a trickster, what a card, what a joke in a box ruffian – readying itself to leap from its hiding place, coiling its spring, crouching in the dark…
Where so many of its kind find solace; undiscovered, unrevealed, unfulfilled.
There is a word.
This page aches for it; yearns for it; screams for it.
Winter terrain, blizzards long gone, silence frost-replenished; cold upon cold upon hard, granite subterranean ennui.
There is a word.
Yet to be spoken.
There is a word.
Yet to be written.
Yet here I am.
Writing.
Writing.
Writing.
And what shall I write next?
What word will it be to show me I am yet to find the word?
