end fantasy.

wrapping his arms around her, they laid together. this had taken longer than expected or shorter than planned- when she had initially removed her shoes to dig her feet into the soft grass she chose a spot with an in between. this lasted for a brief occasion and he outstretched his arm and offered her head a place to rest. the chills from the grass grew stronger as the morning continued to approach dawn. it was still dark at this moment except for the moon which seemed to zig zag from their view on earth. the quiet held their whispers amongst the sounds of crickets. and the next morning- still frames flashed through her memory- she cannot recall how he smelled or if there was stubble on his face, only how she felt in his arms. she was laughing- she was cold but comfortable enough to sleep there with him. but of course, she wouldn't allow herself to fall asleep. they both knew when it was time to part because neither one could bear the the sight of sunrise or the headache. a few attempts of prolonging the fantasy or increasing adrenaline were made which both ultimately accepted a responsible and agreeable failure.

scratching out the reality, beneath these memories, she inscribes a caption: these moments do not show themselves often in a life- unplanned encounters. nobody expecting change or manners- neither expecting a pleasant time, but somehow it wiggles it's way into the evening-greatly cherished and eventually, missed.

she allows them to burn in her brain for a few days and lets the ashes fall.

a place in the trees.

why are we never on the same page?

it's such a waste of trees when you think-

a burst of ink (once in awhile), while the other's leaving indents of a letter.

is it considered written if the empty pen is pushed to the paper?

or are they fraudulent thoughts, even when too much ink is applied-

leaving behind some messy blob of longing.

just once- i would like to use the same pen in a consistent manner.