The Girl Who Runs West 

I have always loved sunsets. 

the fading light 

that sets the sky on fire. 

the last threads of gold 

spilling across the horizon. 

I chase that moment 

on empty roads— 

windows down, 

evening air rushing past me 

as dusk settles 

over the blue hills. 

I live for beautiful endings. 

the final song. 

the last light. 

the seconds before goodbye 

when everything becomes precious 

because it is already slipping away. 

maybe that is why 

I turn west. 

toward the edge of the map 

following painted lines 

that keep unfolding 

just beyond the bend. 

the beautiful terror 

of the unknown 

used to feel like freedom. 

now, 

sometimes, 

it feels like driving 

with no destination 

in sight. 

maybe I only love 

the things 

that ask me 

to keep running. 

the things 

that stay 

just far enough away 

to make me believe 

I will reach them 

in one more mile. 

maybe I mistake 

the ache of longing 

for the feeling of belonging. 

maybe I have spent so long 

chasing what moves 

that I forgot 

to notice what remains. 

because last night, 

in the hush of midnight, 

I found 

another kind of light. 

not the kind 

that burns brightest 

as it leaves. 

not the kind 

I have to hurry toward 

before the sky goes dark. 

a quieter warmth. 

steady. 

patient. 

a porch light, 

waiting in the evening— 

a small amber square 

against the night. 

it does not ask me 

how far I have traveled. 

it does not ask me 

what I have survived 

to get here. 

it simply invites me 

to stay. 

and maybe, 

turning around 

is the bravest thing 

I have ever done. 

because I know how to run. 

I know how to follow 

what keeps moving. 

I know how to chase 

the flicker 

of a darkening sky. 

I know why I love 

the open road. 

but it takes another kind of courage 

to stop the car. 

to let the engine go still. 

to sit in the silence 

long enough 

to hear myself admit: 

I am tired. 

it takes faith 

to turn away 

from the horizon 

and face the road behind me. 

to walk toward 

the porch light 

I passed a hundred times 

because I thought 

everything I needed 

waited somewhere 

still uncharted. 

but maybe I was only 

too afraid to turn around. 

to a window holding its warmth. 

a door left unlatched 

before I have to knock. 

I do not know 

what waits inside. 

I do not know 

who will be there. 

I only know 

I do not have to disappear 

into the distance 

to be found. 

maybe home 

is not where I stop wandering. 

maybe home 

is the place 

that leaves the light on 

for the girl 

who still runs west.