Because Epistolary Never Really Died

The rain turns the gray dessication into verdant apocrypha and I dream of you.  On this mesa, where once a river lived, I can see the skeletons of the ancients rising above, rising against.  The giants, the remnants of islands and semi continents and steaming coal swamps, lay mounded on each other off to the West where the white phosphorous sun ignites the sky in a death plume a hundred shades of exploding gold.  And you remember that day sitting up on that canyon wall watching me watch the sunset behind me in your eyes?

I hope not.

Your life is not your own, not now.  You’re given forever away to your blissful duty and that stranger I never knew but was always around.  I’m better left as a memory than as a love and better still as a faded unaccounted for passage of days.

But when I lay awake at night, with the moving cottonwood leaves snarling secrets outside, I remember waiting on you to get out of the shower.  The spectre of you on my sheets and in my clothes and hanging around the air.

I dream of you.  In those dreams, I find myself forever walking down a long stretch of riparian road.  Along Dominquez creek.  Along Plateau canyon.  Then some nights I dream a highway back to you. Sometimes hundreds of them.

But you are no more alive to me than the hundred carved stones subsiding and listing and capsizing into this cemetery of eons.  I hope you are there forever, or what passes for it.  As one more corpse I drink into quickness.

As a dreamed highway and a path.  As the clouds heated liquid soldering the flux of the end of the day.

We were all dead anyway.