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