Sandals

We drive out in the desert where the street
lights disconnect and we can’t be sure
how far away we are.
She strums the sandy guitar like
an action figure put through all
it’s motions to be left outside
and melt down in the sun.

She reminds me of the time we got kicked
out of an old comics shop for being
way too rough with the editions,
and we laugh at this more madly
than makes sense to.
She asks if she could borrow both
my shoes because she only wore
her sandals and her feet were getting
colder as the sky got even darker than before.

The wind over the dunes makes her hair move
like a ghost half in her skull,
and as our conversation spirals into
the late parts of the night we make it
rain out there where no one thought it possible.
We remain there still forever now just rib cages
poking through the murky mirage to push
who’s ever seeing them straight back
to the reality they’re running from.