Dear Kiya,

Can you let it play like an old Super 8 in your mind, on the back of my eyeballs? That dusty gravel road, increasing unease as the rocks crunched and the air around us became hazy, the candy-striped spires looking like nothing we’d ever seen against the deepest green of the mountains called Zuni. Two cattle gates. Futons on a dusty floor. Nothing moving but the wind. Caches of broken things made beautiful, as if insisting it’s the only way. As if rest can only come to those with none.