My Traveling Companion


His hand feels warm and solid around mine. The blond hairs on the back are soft as I rub them against the grain with my thumb, and when I tighten my grasp I can feel his pulse. Between us a gentle peace is tangible, a peace forged from many dark and tender moments. The trees blur by outside the window of our travel-worn Ford van. We are somewhere in Oregon, barreling down the 5.

He smells like coffee and adventure and wonderful stubbornness. He sounds like beat-boxing and doom metal. He looks like Ireland, Missouri, and everywhere in between in one strong person. He is my traveling partner, my companion.

somewhere in Oregon / afternoon / off the grid

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