I want to be the westward sky at sunset, when blues melt and trickle, drip into fire, burn red and glow orange; warming to the eyes, like wool mittens in Montana’s winter, when frost nipped fingers go numb, tingle, and turn pale white; white as the sun streams that break free from the covering grey clouds, when thunderheads build over prairie-dog plains and rocket through the sky a web of busted dreams;

 

like when she twisted this ring from her finger and set it down on white paper, as empty...