Smoke and alcohol mingle in the air. The fire crackles, sending bursts of orange sparks into the early summer night. A steady bass beat thrums beneath the loud voices floating on the breeze. I pull my sweater closer, tighter. Your laughter rises above the din and brings a smile to my lips.

It’s strange to feel my stomach coil into knots at the thought of your tight muscles and bronzed skin. You are not mine but I wonder if you could be–here under the deep stars, on the top of this mountain, surrounded by inhibition and abandon.

We drive through the lonely streets hoping the wild deer stay in the warmth of their beds and away from the road. The silence is thick and foreboding and it makes me wonder if I am not alone in this. I can hear the tires spinning against the pavement, a dry, final sound.

This is your last night here in the green trees of your childhood. Tomorrow, you will ride south and into a future where I exist only for an instant. Here, now is the moment where I loved you, where you chose to spend your last glimpses of home.

I watched you walk away, my heart in your pocket. I listened over a fuzzy wire for two years. I held your hand for fourteen short days, but that first night made me love you.


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