32 The Meadow And Now the Moon is Rust Savannah Cooper Gray snow crushed against the curb. An extinguished sparkler in a tin bucket. I’m no good with endings. We touched something cold and sharp in each other, so maybe this is best. A quiet exit. No lights ringing the stage, no voices murmuring in the back of a crowded bar. We never did share a bottle of wine, but you sipped my Long Island before stepping into the late October streets. The claws of a cat ticking along the windowsill. Your voice dancing between glitter and starlight. I take nothing back, not a second. Close my eyes and count, slowly, to seven. I’ve walked deep in caves where daylight choked and died, thought of rockslides and trapped miners, saw no difference between the dark behind my eyelids and the world around. But I heard your laugh, the way it cut
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