Lying beside you, after making love again, was bliss. You said my smile was like a Buddha's.
A few years later, we laid on our backs in the middle of the desert. Side by side in our separate sleeping bags.
"Give me, at least," I said, "your hand." The stars, which had been there the whole time, extended almost to the horizon.
During the pandemic we talked from across a table.
I don't mean to suggest that the desert between us is so vast. Seven hours of driving would do it. So why haven't I?
The election is over; we lost. All of us, we all lost. What do I do now with my clenched fist? I open my hand, it's empty.
Give me your hand.
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