4/30

The red lights of the walkway send messages across the wrinkled bedsheet river. A morse code of night secrets. Texas summer sits so heavy and still, like being held in the mouth of a stranger. It is warm enough to swim, quiet enough to whisper, late enough for reckless. You spelled w-a-n-t with the headlights off, your manners holding space between. My mouth grew restless, my teeth grew arms and legs, went looking for diamonds and pearls. The river didn't notice, continued downstream in silence, carried the memory of being licked by the lights.

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15/30

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