Here to Stay

Red rock sunrise, four eyes open, blink in perfect sync, drink in the mountain view from hotel room. Five minute ride — crosstown glide —  and we’re staring, standing at the base. Was that a smile I saw on your face? I thought you just needed to get away.

A mile high, few hundred feet more, plot the path to explore. No breath at new elevations, heart palpitations, pumping ice and tea leaves through your veins. Muscles strain, but tensions ease — into alpine air release. Clinging to the mountain side, unmistakably your smile widens, here, ten states away. And I thought you were here to stay. 

Far from your wild life, in the pine groves chitter wildlife, as we boulder-top hop through golden grass and tree-thrown shadows. Tip-toe approach a precipice, peek across the edge of it, discovering a variegated vale — knees quail, skin pale, jet contrail plumes across crystal blue. You whisper something in my ear you had no intention of letting me hear. And I thought you were here to stay. 

So silent, save the crunching of our slow descent, few words said as I ponder what your secret meant. We emerge from needle canopy, below our feet the Plains sprawl ever fading to the east, to the coast, to our home where you first went missing. We’re kissing now amongst the thistles, amongst whistling Steller’s Jays, themselves unaffected by our amorous display. And I thought you were here to stay. 

Time to scoot, and in the rearview snow caps fade to thin white line. Our fingers intertwine. A smile on your lips, but what’s that in your eyes? What was it that you left behind on hallowed, hollow bluff? The question cycles oft enough, but anyways, I hoped that you were here to stay.

The plane drops, the miles crossed. Alarm goes off, pre-dawn, I lie awake in darkness. From your side a heavy breath, motionless, I wonder if you’ve left. I draw you in. You pull away. And I just thought…