morning stories


With ‘Skinny Love’ on the radio, I think about the sound of your voice across the table.

It’s morning in the desert – bodies covered in yesterday’s dust – a pen rests between my fingers. A cold cup of coffee, a notebook full of old words.

I follow you into sand, dust, brush – a cradled couple, the Scamp and a conversation with a scorpion.

The sun moves up my leg. Clouds turn gray over the hills.

If you’re not afraid, can you still be lost?

Soon there will be rain. Thunder in the distance. Lightening in the sunset. The ground will be dark and the dust will be gone.

I sip my coffee and shift in my chair.

The skin on my thigh is turning red.


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