Smoke.

Under the rice lanterns on a bed of un opened mail and a sea breeze whispering in my ear. All these seasons driving back and forth. From one town to another, sleeping in the city lights. Up against the brick wall with your smoke in my hair. This will be running through my dreams at night, full moon, a blood red sun. All the signs to point back at it. When we dug our heels in. All of the seasons. Out in the garden with the sun or stars, the shadows of the palms.