zoe (8/26/20)

at the top of the chairlift you told me the snow over the crest blended into the fog in the sky like watercolor. it did: exactly the way you phrased it. couldn’t have been better. it’s been over half a year and i still think about it from time to time. when we were kids we sat upstairs, coloring on the sky floor, nails in the crayon tin. you pulled out yellow-green and told me it was your father’s favorite shade. i don’t believe it now--he’s a painter and probably has better taste in color, but i admire the childhood confidence. the layout of our dollhouse is stuck too, like sap on my fingers. you haven’t lived there in forever, and we’ll be moving again before i blink next. just a week or so ago we talked about college, but this time for real, in between dips in the lake and daydreams no one else has had. next summer never takes her lips off the new year, but i know that even in the next revolution, we’ll never leave the sixth great lake. people have been married for shorter lengths: hell, people have been married and divorced all at once in less time. we record voice memos in ancient alien speak and film in shades only shrimps can see. mercury and taurus still throw up peace signs and inside jokes to blue-green giants on the interstate ramp. trust me, ok? the snow never really lets go of the sky.