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.

Love,

V