French Kissing

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I’ve been in the beautiful Australia for just about a month. Currently, I am a freckly, mango addicted, solo beach bum with a hint of an aching heart.

Yet, I remind myself, this is what it feels like to be alive.

I am bold, recklessly optimistic, naïve and I read far too many romance novels. I openly admit to being a disturber of order, reality and everything simple. With that comes the constant need for me to step outside the glass of protection and trace my tongue along the shores of this earth. This also means me showing myself honestly and completely to the people who hold the possibility of wishing me to stay or allowing me to leave.

I’ve always been a woman in search of a home.

Only now am I starting to value the time, the tears, and the kisses it takes to build one.

I will continue to french kiss the world, to take it on like a hormoned-up teenager afraid to close his eyes in fear of forgetting the way the veins on her eyelids look as they kiss.

I will remain daring, vulnerable and unafraid even if sometimes I appear dewy-eyed and “stuck in the clouds.”

I am okay with an aching heart, it means I am trying. It means I am living. It means I am capable of loving. And sometimes it means I am lost, but I’m also now beginning to value that too. Because to be lost means I am searching.

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Sydney, Australia

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