smoke just kept rising
from it. never sparking,
never fully flaring. I wondered
if the damp air held the
coals in cool comfort. I
tried to conjure the last
time we shared this space:
soles up on rounded rock, 
toes pointing to the sky,
stars rising, the fire
ebbing. I remember your face 
appear and vanish in a kind of 
stop motion pantomime, each 
expression separated by dark
then golden flickers. Pauses
brought night sounds. These small
interruptions were welcome. We
were testing our compatibility in
those silences. Could we be us, 
without willing the connection into
being? An us without forcing our way past
night sounds. At some point you said
that the mosquitoes must have
forgotten about us. I scratched
my neck and wasn't so sure. 
There will always be mosquitoes.
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