Wednesday, May 06, 2009

In the half light you traced the veins running blue under the thinner layers of my skin, hands floating soft like fog down the street. The summer died not that long after, but the heat from that second lingered for months, crackling like the moment after a lightning strike, tasting like oranges and ice cream and salty gulf water.

But we cashed in all our chips and took off down a long straight road, confusing alligators for bourbon and daily shimmering in the heat. I took off my shoes and walked down the middle of the scorching highway, feeling the searing blacktop open the bottom of my feet and blacken the wounds. Driving the wrong way for both sunrises and sunsets, the days all getting shorter but not noticeably so.

Even still now and again a raincloud passes by, gently dropping the feel of soft hands and the savor of long afternoons, and somewhere in the back of my eyes I can taste salt and oranges and heavy heavy sunshine.

(PS, Seattle and I have been together for six years yesterday. In celebration, today I reorganized this and did this.)

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