Ripen And Split

We both said we meant it, your hands in my hair. In the end it didn’t matter, you looked out across the desert like you were already crossing it, a dehydrated camel hell bent on pushing yourself towards purple sunsets no matter how rough or dangerous the terrain. I sat in the barely shade near a towering saguaro and braided spines and blossoms intermittently, blood flowering on the waxy white petals. I watched you go until the heat rising from the sand turned you into a wavy haze. I sighed when both hands dropped the struggle to hold you near.From Guest Contributor Sarah Reddick

Sarah is a writer, editor, and a writing professor at the University of Missouri-St. Louis. Her work has previously appeared in The Local Voice, The Mid-Rivers Review, and Salt Journal.