The Last Weekend

Your memory melts like snowflakes in the fire I
built when we camped in the Black Mountains and you

thought you saw a wolf. I tried to keep us
safe, stayed alert feeding flames. When you

woke next morning you laughed, said you’d
made the whole thing up. Everyone

knew there were no wolves in Wales and I
was the stupid one. When we left, a blood moon

was skimming the razor’s edge of pines. You
swilled beer in the passenger seat while I

stamped out every ember, kicking
a cover of earth over the remains.

Night falls blind in the forest. Alone,
I drove the tunnels of trees, my lights

shifting shadows and the shape of you
flickered for an instant before melting into dark.

 

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