I Dreamed About You

It was three degrees this morning when we awoke, our first morning in our own bed in six weeks. Rubbing the sleepy dirt out of our eyes, it took a moment for the realization to sink in: We are home. No longer on the road. Home. Six weeks is a short time in the broader scope of things, but still a rather long time to be on the road, to live out of the back of a truck. We spent time in twelve states, lost our minds more times than either of us can count, and saw countless trails, many of which also gave us trail work opportunities and a better understanding of what sustainable trail construction looks like in a wide range of ecotypes. We learned a lot this trip, about ourselves, about trails, about this country in which we live. We ate well and usually slept even better, full days culminating in starry skies. We saw rain only once, and temperatures anywhere between the low teens and the eighties. We saw a gator and a cougar within a week of each other, and we'll take the

Slip-sliding through 6" fresh powder, fat flakes cascading in thick sheets, following the trail by muscle memory alone - welcome back, winter! The world shrouded in mystery and layered in grace. Soft radiant light infusing magic, and the world laced with prints and punctuated by the occasional birdsong.

It rained last night; the walks are slippery, icy where the water froze just after it cleared the remaining snow. There's a metaphor in there somewhere about cleaned slates, and how scraping something down isn't always an improvement, but - as usual - I've no idea how to apply it. I've come unmoored. That's the truth of it, distilled. I drift between tenses and times in my sleep these restless nights, and I've a consistent thirst for alcohol. Thus far it remains unquenched, but how long before the last strands of stable snap? A waiting game, probably - reason and responsibility will seem alright soon enough, or they won't. Not much changes the present either way. I woke to a text years ago, remembered anew the other night, something about being the loneliest in a room full of people. Even then it was pretension over substance for her, but anyway - I wouldn't have found my anchor without that tumble. Unintended consequences and the long game and all.

We're most alone when surrounded by strangers, she said, choosing pretension over familiarity & I should've known then it was all a mistake, but without that mistake I'd likely've not found my real future, so for that? I suppose I should thank her.

Freedom was the day I deleted your contact, the day I vowed to walk away, the day I embraced silence. If you have nothing nice to say... You're cussing a storm in a cocktail dress your mother wore when she was young Red sun saint around your neck A wet martini in a paper cup You're a wasp nest, you're a wasp nest. You were brilliant. You were broken. The tragedy was my inability to look away. I still don't know what happens when a volcano meets a tornado. I wrote such snark; it was truth, even as my mouth was thick with lies.  ah, but these days the only things I play are as such:  memories; a woman's sex; my own weary legs; booze down the gullet. See? Oversimplifications are the easiest lies; I was broken; I was in love; I was lost in the woods I knew best. Your eyes are broken bottles And I'm afraid to ask And all your wrath and cutting beauty You're poison in the pretty glass You're a wasp nest, you're a wasp nest I couldn&#