a thousand words for bliss.

they climbed a watertower, snuck out of their dark houses, took weekly naps in the afternoon sunshine, went swimming at midnight, paid for their first college educations, drank white wine on a roof, texted all night and all day, fought in silence, sat in a bright hallway and almost kissed half a dozen times, changed their minds and their moods, cooked a dinner and washed  the dishes, picked apples, went dancing, watched a few hundred movies on an old couch, smoked once or twice a year on the back porch, planned trips and didn’t take them, shot film, burned the prints.

       and they sat, on the porch, a tiny blaze smoldering on the floorboards in front of them. ”why are you burning our pictures?” he asked, feeling the need to lower his voice. there was something hushed and sacred about watching their own two faces melt and curl. they sat across from each other, the tiny fire in between. she had a shoebox next to her, filled with neat rows of photographs. an hour ago, she had brought them out, tucked under her arm as a peace offering, a reminder. and now they were burning them, one image at a time.

he noticed that all their 4×6 smiles were forced.
    he smiled,

and tipped the last third of his cheerwine over the smoldering photograph, over the ashes of others. the tiny flame sizzled and gave up, and he shoved the damp mess aside. she smiled back at him, finally, a real smile. he got it. “we don’t need those,” she told him. “cause i’m not going anywhere.”

he kissed her.