Her feet twitch to what I imagine is a dream about snotty steers and games of the puppy sort.
Moccasins on my feet and the rings on my fingers are cold.
It feels like spring outside.
The sun is shining.
The hot sensation on my back that I have missed since fall dawned on me.
My arm is aching.
I think I'm having roping with-drawls.
It's finally starting to dry out; slowly but surely, the arena will be ready to disc.
Shaggy hair on muddy, gritty horse hides.
I don't have me figured out.
I miss the smell of fairgrounds.
The dirt in the air, horse sweat.
I miss the sound of fairgrounds.
Spurs on muddy boots, creased hat brims and the devious smiles that glint off cowboys' faces.
I miss nights that never seemed to end.
Nights that started with ropes and ended with laughter and truck exhaust in the air and butterflies in my stomach.
I want rope burns on my on my skin.
I want pressure from a dragging calf running through the rope that crosses my leg.
I want my feet on the edge of a fire and a strong arm around my shoulders.
Hats on saddle horns.
Lips stained with a matte shade of red.
Dogs whining to have a hand run across their coat.
Ropes hanging from everywhere and styrofoam cups leftover from Dr. Pepper runs.
Striped lines pass underneath hats on a dash and smiles stained with lipstick and coffee.
There's something happy that I find about tanned skin and a lot of it.
Cut off shorts and reservoirs.
Cut off shorts and laceless roper shoes.
Cut off shorts and long legs that should be tanner than they are.
Strong hands and the kinds of scars that are attractive.
The kinds of scars that make you look tough, the kinds with a story.
I think I'm crazy and then I think I have it figured out, only to remember my insanity.
Fuzzy static of speakers getting drowned out by hysterical giggles and voices that don't have a hope in the singing world.
I want to read.
I want to stay up too damn late and drink coffee to early.
I want to live.
I'm gonna live.