I had the thought that your hands would be cold if I were to reach out and touch them. They were nearly a silver blue under the light of that ever watchful eye of the moon. You tried to catch mine at every turn, at every move we’d make and I knew it. I could feel the weight of it. But I resisted flicking them your way, resisted what I knew I’d see.

Then it was late, and the bite of mid-October wind hit us as we stood in the abandoned parking lot, wondering where to go next.


You made me think of that day of burning houses, and threatening clouds. You made me think of the lonely little statue I saw, sitting, forgotten in an old prairie-side graveyard.

You reminded me of what it was like to yearn for more than a home.