tequila sunset.

you, stretched
out on the dirty bank of the river all afternoon
spent pulling me through the weeds
and scattered glass, laughing when i
stumbled.

the city wilted under the weight
of the heat, a grey haze hanging
above the jagged silhouettes of the towers.

you pulled off your sticky shirt, i carried it
in my back pocket,
a dirty white flag.
we drank straight
from the bottle, gasping for
air between gulps
and chapped-lip kisses.

the sun sank below the lines
between land and sky, my hands
below the line of dark denim
against your skin and bones.
when we awoke, the water was lit up
reflections of a fire
in a warehouse on the opposite shore,
and as we listened to the glass shattering,
the wood screaming in the blistering heat,

you know i missed the stillness
very much.