Spain

I love the soils of Spain because it's beautiful there.

I left myself there in the form of shared desserts and footprints in the sand and reminders that whisper something about the summer tasting better all over again on August 2.

I relapsed onto Spain at the edge of the border, a step away from France,

but it still smells like the woods at twilight

and I love everything about Spain.

If Spain had hands, I'd land all my planes in its palms

and kiss every line that separates its fingers

and if Spain had eyes,

they'd be an impossible color.

The idea of it has tethered me every day since March,

and now Spain is surrounded by shattered tension

because I've seen Spain

and I know Spain

and now the only thing from the rubble at its feet

is the hope that the weather will clear

and the tension will regrow

and Spain will keep me at the edge of its eyes again.

It's wrong to live in a country that only loves you sometimes.

But I love Spain.

And I'm alone on the road to Spain

hoping it's worth all the lonely hours

all the saltwater burns on my eyes

and the bruises on my feet

and the scuffs on my elbows.

But I love Spain.

And it will never get old,

so long as the peace treaties never change

and the cities never forget why they love me, too.