Walking around this beautiful place, on my own, statuesque as I catch a glimpse of myself with a sidelong glance, the mirrored glass in the storefronts I pass. Flowered dress, tailored and prim. Dressed down with flats and a canvas sling. Saturday and I emerged at noon, the sun burning into already darkened skin. All these things whirling in my head. I feel so strong, and my body is too, so much so, is it too much for my own good? Bracing myself, lonely yet free. The flowers soften it all, or perhaps heighten the air, that I'm so hard to get, living somewhere up there. An island, an island, sometimes it feels like I'm an island. But less than before, now I don't long for a shipwreck to land on my shores. Nothing to fix, no one to be, except for whatever it is I need to be for me (and He, I guess, I try, I leave room for that piece of the pie). I say it's a phase, and take advantage of this time, the flight, the ease, the space that's all mine. But that night as I lay, alone on my journey, an old friend calls with news and what seems like an answer to the wondering. As he speaks I catch sight of nature, doing it's thing, in the corner of the ceiling, a bug gets caught and it's dinner for the hungry. It's ironic, he muses about love and men, me and my strength, "Don't take this badly, because it's not, but I can't see you with anyone, you're too strong for the lot. Heterosexual men are not deep and smart enough." And I sigh. But there must be! At least one... There's the answer, the intuition with it's calling, nature, doing it's thing. We can try to interrupt it, but darling, what good would that bring?