We Two Boulders / by kurt zhuang

I take another moment, rapt. It's there, just beyond that tree line. You nod, eyes closed, exhausted. I take your hand, "let's go tomorrow, then". Under the scrolling setting sky, we find our way home. By the big fire we join our other selves for a welcomed supper, ravenous. They don’t talk much, but the food is good. Dusk light beams jagged through our cave’s mouth, toothing shadows that play with our minds, calling again, someone inside us. Our other selves don’t notice. Heads down, each bite ensconces them deeper into our cave corner. Full enough... two more bites, and let's go.

It’s fierce out - we don't belong in this black sawtooth night. But we can’t turn back now - we’re as good as lost. The light from the tree line long gone, I feel a subtle thorn in my side. I watch it grow into a fine dagger, some youthful rebellion - I shout! "Let’s sit," just for a minute. You nod. I just wanted to say "I love you" and I hope we make it. We two still boulders in shaved silver moonlight, let us rest, for a moment.

Millenia later she finds us on her maiden dig. Morale low, her days all but squandered, the bitter broad-shouldered colleague in tow - it’s all okay! she's found us! Sun crowns a beautiful mess of hair as she she frees us with each caring stroke, ejecting dirt and dust from the vandals of ever-turning time, we cry! but can’t - we are exquisite fossils of boulders of men’s minds.

They find our other selves in a cave not far - two souls, grasping still spoons to their gaping mouths, to be forgotten again.

But she's been thinking. 

And they are the ones she takes. So we watch them go - gear-packed mules fed to a Peruvian sunset, in their wake a thin vacuum of silence cut swiftly by the warm-weather rhythm of crickets. Still you speak so fondly of her. My brow furrows because - “I love her”. You consider our friendship, an ephemeral fall through old haunts - I am there too and it's never been clearer: I love you!

But your heart pounds and in the morning you are gone.

I sit alone atop this dug up hill amongst many birds. Long winds carve into my daggered side a cave corner, and I can’t help but think about a nice supper.