I've watched the sun set from this spot for eight years, and
it's always different. The codependent theater of my mind is showing double
features of fools scrambling to the top of this rock. I see myself lighting a
victory cigarette. I see our heaving chests grasping for oxygen. I see my hand
in yours, inhaling your hair as it spills down my chest.
Tonight the sky is clear, smearing through Eastern Blues to flickering Western Reds. There is a sense of acquiescence in the fading vibrancy of these dying summer colors, growing paler as the world turns to winter. Last month I stared through the wildfire smoke at a sun the color of red rocks, and thought of you.
I'm scrawling these memories across the flattest stones I can find. This place is for drafting commandments, but I'm distracted by the view. Everything beautiful looks like a set of paintings, carefully wrapped in plastic and sitting on a shelf.
Tonight the sky is clear, smearing through Eastern Blues to flickering Western Reds. There is a sense of acquiescence in the fading vibrancy of these dying summer colors, growing paler as the world turns to winter. Last month I stared through the wildfire smoke at a sun the color of red rocks, and thought of you.
I'm scrawling these memories across the flattest stones I can find. This place is for drafting commandments, but I'm distracted by the view. Everything beautiful looks like a set of paintings, carefully wrapped in plastic and sitting on a shelf.
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