The sun hopped and danced between oak leaves as my hand was steady on the wheel, a steel guitar strumming and an ache deep.
I rounded the corner to an empty house, the lingering quiet stifling. I let out the dog, grabbed a glass of something cold, wondering what direction your blue eyes were peering.
This was the night where I used to race home. To sit cross-legged on the floor and soak up the rays of your beautiful heart. When I could finally shed my old skin and crawl into yours.
Joy ran deep at the sight of you, and the taste of you, and the plans we made like smooth butter. Because a hundred years ago I knew you, and we were kindred, and we spoke a language that cannot be translated.
And yet love is fire and it burns hot, and sometimes turns to dust. So I scraped up the remains and let them fly off toward to the West, by the garden and the snow peas, the pieces drifting in the wind.
I hope the ashes of our love land in Montana, next to where the sun bears low and the mountains rise high. I shall imagine you there, by an old barn with dusty jeans, looking up to see a hazy cloud of us, and you shall smile slow like you tend to do.
Wait for me there, my love, for another hundred years. We’ll fly through back roads and kiss like fools once again.