Invisible Canyon Jamie Soto

Invisible Canyon

Jamie Soto

photography

To the Girl Running Reverse Down Pensacola Street at 7:47 A.M.

Sophia Upshaw

To the girl running reverse down Pensacola Street at 7:47 a.m., I hope you get to class on time. Backpack smacking your spine, I hope your alarm clock never falters. I hope your shoelaces fall madly in love, move to the suburbs, and buy a white picket fence to call home.

I hope you never miss your bus, bleed through your panties during exam week, or believe for even a second that 3 for $27 is a good deal on panties. I hope you never have to fake an orgasm, or that you get an Oscar for all the ones you do. I hope you never have to download Tinder and swipe through a Bass Pro Shops catalog of men holding up dead fish. And God! I hope you meet your lover in a coffee shop, that your eyes lock like an espresso shot to the veins, penciled in by the fates like a script for a rom-com starring Cameron Diaz.

I hope you never let someone make you feel like shit for being a Gemini, that you never meet three red lights in a row during rush hour, never taste a microwave dinner that’s still cold in the middle. I hope you realize your mistake after two episodes of Love Island, instead of 40, that you never say you too when the waiter tells you to enjoy your meal, that your gum never sticks to the sidewalk and that you only stick to the main road, especially after dark.

I hope you don’t have to count to 30 when you spill salt. I hope you write love letters to your thighs, that you can eat carbs without wanting to die, that you stick your fork into the side of life, take a bite and savor it as it slides down your throat.

To you - the blur of black hair flagging down taxis in the wind, I hope your coffee is always warm and blossoming in swirls of steam. that your beer is always crisp and sinks into your tongue like naked bodies in backyard pools over summer. I hope the sun glows in the nape of your blinds, that 7 a.m. nuzzles up to your side, rubs its nose against your cheek, and purrs.

I hope the words you’re struggling to find are always close by, just napping in the shade of your tongue. I hope you dance on bars and skinny dip in the wake of all your bad habits, that you take a sledgehammer to the sky to make room for new stars, that you name your own constellations.

I hope you swing your legs over your comfort zone and leap, that you say those three words even if it sends you running in reverse, but more than anything, for you, I hope whatever you’re looking for finds you first.