Blue Ink

Cold toes curled up in wet socks and the smell of horse sweat and leather. 

Yellow moon shining down on something that was supposed to ring true. 

Like the sound of rain drops on my tin roof. 

My braid damp from the mornings frost still smelled like branding fire smoke. 

Your number was written on my wrist in blue ink. 

Funny how when time passed that ink turned like bruises and faded from my arm. 

I had my fingernails colored with chipped red paint and a look of 3 nights bedroll sleep. 

No it really wasn't romantic. 

We were spur rowels and rap music. 

Our porch was drunken laughter and the prettiest sunsets in the world. 

We were young hearts telling old stories with toothy, white grins. 

I sat on old wooden corrals and watched good horses work in bad dirt. 

The best old soul advice I could muster was delivered with a beer in one hand and a bible in the other. 

We were drifting, our minds and moods. 

With hands sunburned and hearts sort of lost. 

It seemed like bad luck and poor decisions were awfully familiar. 

We fell in love with waving grass and mountain air. 

Our fingers were glassed over with calluses and ripped up, gnarly spots, we were so bloody miserable some days. 

We drank too much, cussed too much and laughed it all off. 

I think maybe that’s where I found the most of me. 

Xoxo, Gussie