It Slips Through

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If I think of these days I am thirsty and the window is always down and there seems to be an endless supply of land that rolls and sweeps and presses toward the horizon. We inch and we crawl and we roll toward places we will never be again. I have never seen so much held in one’s hands.

In the dim of a bar we talk about what takes us apart and how we got here, we trace trajectories that don’t connect and so many stories end with, that’s just the way it was. I think about how I am never going to be close enough to you.

I think I might forever be in Wyoming. Even when we leave and I close my eyes, I am still there. Of all the places I thought might swallow me whole, this was not the place I imagined. This was nothing like what I imagined. I am worried I won’t be able to hold onto any of it. I am worried it slips through faster than I can write it down.

If I could tell myself how to remember this, how to carry it around in my pockets; it is roadside, always roadside and the smell of sagebrush and heat that comes from the asphalt and freezing hands on mountain tops and half-finished water bottles and the sound of your voice. I have never seen land move like this.

I wonder every moment of the day what it is you think of, how you feel, and where you are when we are not here. Will we not be here forever? And how will this be carried around in your pocket when we are done and have gone home? Is Wyoming for you what Wyoming is for me? And I wonder if all of this and our being near one another, and the way the land moves past us, is an act of patience or an act of strength. I am not sure any of us are going to be able to tell the difference, between this or the days or the smell of this desert from the other desert. And perhaps that’s the point.

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