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The desert heat had a way of turning professional boundaries into something as fluid and unreliable as a shimmering mirage on the 111.
Her eyes were the color of a West Texas storm front, that bruised purple-black that tells you to batten down the hatches.
The condensation on the window mirrored the sweat cooling on her shoulder, a map of everywhere we hadn't meant to go.
He tastes like the first press of a cane harvest, raw and heavy with the promise of something that could burn.
I watched my own reflection in your lens, a pixelated version of a woman who forgot she had a pulse until you touched the zipper.