eternal/internal camping

Today I didn't want to leave.

And I love to camp in the rain

but the stars are more worth sitting by.

We should've known it was going to rain on us,

like naive girls with high hopes who decided the tent was keeping us from seeing the stars.

It was only keeping us dry during the storm.

Maybe that's an analogy for you.

I didn't want to leave the passenger side of his car because the clothes are piling the floor

the bathroom drawers are empty

the list of to-buy's gets longer and less fluid.

But I'd camp forever if his sweatshirts got caught between the scent of his hands and the firewood,

if the Big Dipper never changed location in the sky

and the coals burned easier.

I want to exchange the cardboard boxes for long sleeves and ankle socks

and the shoeboxes for mixed tapes

and the new bedding for old sleeping bags.

I want to trade essays with kindled newspaper

and advisors for his eyelashes

and textbooks for campsites.

And I fit perfectly on the fun end of the grocery cart

but there are luncheons to attend

and emails to reply to.

And the grocery cart won't get me there in time.

I left my heart on the dirt backroad by an Alta campground,

halfway between a mountain and our woven hands

and the smell of breakfast and smoke is ringing in my ears

and the dye won't come out of my skin

but I'm sick of scrubbing it off.

Maybe it's just a part of me now.