The drive out past Denver,
turning the dial
until static softened
into song.

The mountains rose
slowly as if 
they didn’t want 
to startle us
& we took pictures 
everywhere, proof
we were once looking 
in the same direction.

Pulled over way too often—
Blue columbine 
along the shoulder,
Milky Way slung
over sand dunes,
signs for trailheads
we’d never hike again.

That was before the silence
began sounding 
like comfort;
before your hand 
stopped reaching 
for mine.

I keep thinking about Colorado.
How, for a time,
we thought 
we would never
run out of road,
as if forward
were enough
to carry us
home.

Previously published in Muleskinner Journal