Seven dollar wine
Two grams, even
Your grandmother’s aged Pendleton blanket
Pilling with the buds of time and circumstance

Four hundred and twenty eight miles
From everything you bid farewell
Anything that evokes a similarity
Because this is where it has led

Back seat, silver sedan.
We paint our stories in the morn dew
Like modern cavemen
Our phones are the fire

Tangled and tired
Too invested now
We wove our words into conversation
And basked in the intrigue of discourse

A hush impedes
As the sun burst the seams of the pacific
To cherry a falling sky
Like your hand-rolled cigarette