The Search For The Wild West
We grew up together in the wild west, playing amongst the foothills of the Rockies and the long grass of the prairie. You saved me from a mosh pit gone wrong when you were fifteen. When I was 21, we fell in love over Smirnoffs on the roof of the Boots Barn downtown during my winter break. But after a month of love, I returned to college and was stolen away from you by clubs on South Beach and island accents.
I knew I could never surrender to the foothills, I was too wild for the west. My heart lives in stories, travels, strangers. Yours is planted firmly in the soil we grew up on.
When I return to Wyoming, I drive out to the original homestead on the prairie and run my hands along the splintering red wood of the old barn. I spend hours sitting on the decaying tractor, breathing deep breaths, hoping to inhale everything that is pure about the west. I write in my torn leather notebook stories you will never read.
Who knew wild and west would choose not to build a life together, but rather let each other bloom in their owns ways, their own time.
I guess there is no wild west after all.