Aug 23, 2004

On Tuesday's

Her hands jammed in jean pockets as she leans back.
One freckle on her neck.
Feet crossed on the dashboard in the sun.

And I think I'd throw slow, a flaming box of matches underhand, to burn it all down. I think I'd smell her hair, and wouldn't care, with a smile I think I'd drive out straight to the desert and let the sun beat me all to hell. I think I’d give it all away all up to her, letting it come back in the rain down in rhythms and rivulets, into pools that spill themselves out into the little rocks of the sand.

I wouldn't. But I think I might.