The Desert Never Forgets

 At the crossroads where the desert

splits itself like a wound, I sat. 
I found a dive bar flickering
under neon bones of red and blue,
a last-chance lantern for the lost.

Inside, country music bled slow
from a cracked jukebox,
steel guitar crying like a ghost
that still remembered my name.
Cigarette smoke curled
into grey serpents above the bar,
hissing secrets only the midnight
and the damned could decipher.

I drank whiskey-bent lies
straight from the bottle—
truth tasted too clean for a night like this.
The bartender’s eyes were moons of their own,
half-lit, half-shadowed,
seeing more than he ever dared speak aloud.

Outside, the full moon hung heavy,
round as an omen, bright as a spell,
pulling at the sand, the blood,
at every crossroads choice I’d buried
under years of wandering.

A gust rose from the west—
warm, wicked, whispering—
and I felt the desert stir,
a witch’s hand brushing my spine,
reminding me that magic lives
in moments like these:
one foot in the life you’ve lived,
one foot in the future you count on.

By morning, I was nothing
but a tumbleweed soul,
light enough to roll,
untethered enough to finally listen
to the wind calling my name—
a promise, a warning,
a spell breaking open at dawn.

And I moved.
Because crossroads don’t wait,
and the desert never forgets
who you were
when the neon flickered
and the moon demanded truth.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Farewell Spell for Marfa

Image
  A Farewell Spell for Marfa There’s a certain kind of dusk that only belongs to Marfa—the kind where the light bleeds slow, like a wound refusing to close. Dust rises from the road in amber halos, and the air hums with that strange, invisible electricity that’s neither joy nor sorrow, but something in between. Out here, endings don’t announce themselves; they just drift in on the wind, quiet as tumbleweed shadows. The desert feels hollow tonight. The motel signs buzz faintly, the horizon wears its bruise of burnt pink and violet, and the ghosts of all my former selves wander the edges of town, whispering promises they couldn’t keep. Even the wind sounds different—less like a song, more like a sigh. Marfa was once a kind of spell for me. The wide, merciless sky taught me surrender. The desert dust buried my noise, my need to belong. There were nights when I swore I could feel the old witches stirring under the mesquite—old souls who taught me that solitude is its own kind of prayer...
Read more

Cursed & Cured

Image
  Cursed & Cured Out in the desert where the witches dwell, I found my name carved in a drought-bleached bone— a curse whispered under a neon sign flickering like a dying prayer above a dead-end bar. Whiskey burned its truth into my tongue, country music bleeding from the jukebox like a wound that never learned to heal. Unrequited love sat beside me, boot heels kicked up, acting like he owned the night. Ghosts drifted between the cacti, soft as the sigh of a past life; they knew my story, how I’d worn my boots thin chasing someone who couldn’t turn toward me no matter how bright I burned. But the witches circled back at dawn, their shawls catching the bourbon-colored light, their voices a low rattle of mercy. They crushed mesquite leaves, mixed them with dust and moonwater, and painted a sigil on my chest— half curse, half cure, all truth. When the spell settled into my ribs, I felt the desert’s pulse replace my own. It didn’t promise love, only clarity. Only survival. Only the...
Read more