I hate the way this turns in me, spits, then covers its tracks with a sweep of your sombrero. The horses aren't spotted anymore — they're sleek, almost metallic, as you ride away.

Your chapped lips form a crease in the way I think of you. We wanted a prayer of success, or succession, between us — but one thing following another, we were led astray. I wonder what you look like without your insolent pride. I would suck the tip of your disaster, while the horses scuffed against the rails. Let's go talk about that.

Three days gone now, and I'm rubbing hard against the hump of surrender. Who would have guessed this. There's something to be said for guarded potency, and you've got the corner on that. Still a lot of snow here, and tracks going every which way.