we kissed again below the ski basin.
above everything else.
moving my head, side to side
to catch shimmering glimpses of the city lights
through the aspens at our feet.

I don't know what this is.
how hard you held on, how honestly you cried
with deep breaths and little motions, tired and slow.
and when you got home
shouldered your coat and stepped out into the snow.

and I am sorry it should be like this.
that my face had been dried by the desert november, driving
through dead air at
impossible speeds.

          you are my little sip, for parched lips.


my little breath of fresh air my little hint of
light through thick trees
my little only one night under warm sheets and then
driving south again, into the wind
until january, until summer, until the water runs in the canyons
and every fragile flower fights for rain

(and they never wonder
how deep now to drink.)