To think big thoughts and relish small pleasures, live life in Technicolor.
Dog softly sleep-grumbling next to me should be a comfort but my brain is uncharacteristically, torturously busy for the small hours. Every time I close my eyes I’m flooded with thoughts of tequila on lips, smoke curling around fingers and how much I want to wake up with the smell of you in my hair. Other thoughts that don’t make sense and I just don’t yet know where to put them. Useless to try to figure it out now, now when the answers couldn’t come if we begged. I know when they come they’ll come too fast and I won’t be able to take the time I want to let it all sink into my skin. Even the best answer we have now isn’t an answer at all. You might be a haven but you’ll never be a home. The ache will always bury itself in our chests, the memories colored by street lamps and campfires. So I don’t sleep, honey, I only think of how I’ll slide my tongue across your lips and let the linger of tequila burn me.
Tiny southwestern dinosaurs, green chili, desert campfires of mesquite and juniper and lots of good-natured chuckling in the middle of the night. Frogsong, frosty beers and furry friends.
We hold out in building a campfire - for now the only light comes from the fire captured between our fingertips and the stars. We make room for silence; the wind softly whistles in the neck of my beer. Shooting stars arching farther than I’ve ever seen. The lack of light heightens all other senses, tuning in to one another more. Heat lightning flashes in the distance; the smell of sage and mesquite hangs heavy. It’s warm - warm and soft on your skin. No moon. Stars between stars between stars. The Milky Way ropes its way across the sky. We joke and reveal and confide the way you can only do in nature, in darkness.