tumbleweed mirage

 

he pressed a 7-up bottle to his lips
clear liquid still hot from the arizona sun
a taste flatter than the desert sand

it was a matter of time
always had been, always would be
her lips taste better than 7-up

mind games live and die in the mind
like divots in sifting burning sand
convinced him she had walked

tumbleweeds erased her
as though she had never been
in places he had never seen