I don’t sleep.
Not really.
I drift between worlds—somewhere between bark and breath, between memory and myth.
They call me Bigfoot.
Like I’m a punchline.
Like I’m not ancient.
I wake in the cradle of fog, the forest wrapped around me like a secret. My chest rises slow. My thoughts… slower. A tree above me creaks in rhythm with my spine.
The day begins not with light, but with scent.
Rain.
Moss.
A lost woman’s shampoo.
I move through the woods without sound. The deer don’t run. The wind doesn’t mind me. I pass through the world like a half-forgotten prayer.
Around noon, I run. Because sometimes the blood needs to burn.
Through trees. Over roots.
I chase the rhythm of the earth itself—until I remember I’m the thing people chase.
Then I see her.
Standing at the edge of the ravine, camera dangling, breath caught between a gasp and a giggle. She’s not scared. Not really.
Curious.
Like Eve before the bite.
She stares at me like I’m real. Like she’s never seen anything more alive. And I—beast that I am—feel… seen.
She lifts her hand.
So do I.
And when our fingers almost touch, something ancient hums between us. Not romance. Not lust. Something wilder. Something not meant for words.
I don’t stay.
Because legends don’t linger.
We haunt.
We remind.
We vanish.
As night falls, I sit by a cold creek, moonlight painting my fur silver. Somewhere, an owl calls my name in a voice only I remember.
And in the dark, I whisper back—not with words. With longing.
Because I am not the monster.
I am the memory that walks.
