He walked away in the waning moonlight of mid-summer believing the story had reached the edge and plunged into the past.
She couldn’t forget the taste of his lips, smokey and sweet, and he drowned her memory in bottomless whiskey bottles.
She walked away from him in the sun-bright afternoon, the magnitude of her footsteps echoing. Looking back, eyes bleary with fiery sadness, she waited for memory to ink itself into permanence.
But they couldn’t forget, so she wrote rivers of words so that he might hear, and he played his guitar wondering if notes were enough to bring her home.