The Art of a Life

I woke in a field once, wrapped tightly in a fleece blanket, an oversized pair of boots on my feet. The sun was just starting to creep up into the sky, casting the morning into a lazy haze of purple kissing dark blue. I remember the cold, the way it made my breath look, the feeling of it fighting against my clothing to reach in and grab me by the bones. My boyfriend at the time, Max, was next to me, shivering, having let me steal his blanket in the middle of the night.

I watched the morning come to life as people around me woke up, body after body sparking up as if just remembering where they were.

One of the cars started loudly, and Max woke up, smiling. What a simple thing, to wake up to a beautiful morning with a love you didn’t question. “Are you cold? Do you want to go home?”

I shook my head and stared ahead, watching as another person got up, waving as they kicked an empty bottle into the remnants of a campfire. “I'd rather we just didn't say anything for a while.”