surrounded
by
orchards
and
burning
hills,
we
rest
our
engines,
stay
our
balding
treads.
We
breathe,
thinking
we’ve
found
whatever
it
was
we
were
looking
for.
But
as
cloudless
skies
give
way
to
a
darker
season,
the
rains
wash
away
the
surface,
and
we
discover
we’ve
brought
ourselves
with
us.
On
a
tiny
mattress
we
curl
into
each
other,
talking
of
that
other
place.
I
say,
"I’m
so
sorry
I’ve
been
this
way."
You
say,
"I
just
want
you
to
be
happy."
"What
is
it
I’m
trying
to
find?"
I
ask.
"I
don’t
know,
you
tell
me,
only
you
can
know
for
sure."
Lying
in
our
too-‐small
bed,
sick
and
spent,
trying
to
decide
what
to
do
in
the
gray,
wet
December.
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