I want to live on a mountain where the mornings smell like wet stone pine split open by rain and cold earth.
Where the windows stay open and the curtains move even when no one is touching them.
No phone beside the bed. No little red numbers telling me who needs me.
Just a blue bicycle leaning against the house its frame cold with morning one tire resting in the grass.
I would leave before the sun came all the way over the ridge.
The road would still be damp.
My tires would press dark half-moons into it.
There would be fog caught low between the trees and birds somewhere above me I could hear but not see.
I would ride past wildflowers past fences silver with dew past places with no names.
The air would taste green.
It would sting my face and fill my lungs until there was no room left for anything else.
No voices.
No unfinished conversations.
No one asking where I am.
Only the small metallic click of the bicycle chain the soft crush of gravel my breath going in and out.
I would have a small house higher up the mountain.
A wooden table. A white cup. A bed beside an open window.
At night the sheets would smell like wind.
Sometimes rain would begin in the dark and I would wake to water tapping the roof and the whole mountain breathing outside my window.
I think I would sleep differently there.
Deep enough to forget myself.
And every evening I would ride home while the light disappeared from the road.
The trees would turn black first.
Then the mountain.
Then my hands on the handlebars.
And for a few minutes there would be nothing in the world but the blue bicycle beneath me the smell of rain coming and one small light burning in the window ahead.
Mari Sánchez Cayuso 
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