Eleven hours ahead, eleven hours behind. My earth feels like it is peeling ahead, spinning itself stifling hot. While yours trails behind, perhaps in the shadow of cool clouds. I close my eyes, when you open yours, where dust seeps everywhere, where bits of grit tarry on the eyelids, where grime burrows into socks and loiters between the toes. Where heat and sand wear down the souls of boots and if you’re not careful your best intentions too. Grit crawls into shorts, sticks to sweat on the sleeve and rests on the edges of a helmet, settles in the cracks in ones hands, and begins to feel like it can come alive like lice.
But when I finally can close my eyes, it all becomes so vivid. I remember you, I are stronger than dust-- love can go where grit can never dwell. Passion seeps into our bones, our blood and its memory catches your breath and springs fresh air to the heart. When darkness brews and grit scratches every surface, our passion still crowds out the bitter, clears out dust’s battle against then tender. I hope you too, when you close your eyes as I open mine, know we have dust beat, because you, I seep love deeper than grit can ever go. And I know someday, when my day slows down and my sunrise meets up with yours, I’ll be holding you close forever.
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