Crushed

Brisk air brushes through birch trees, 

Tracing fingertip circles in the dust

Atop the mountain where lips pressed lips. 

Peaks of snow in moonlit dusk, 

Cameras clicking to the rhythm 

Of heartbeats bleating as they fall. 

Hours await for mascara rivers,

Weeks rush on for Q-tip rafts,

Rippling rapids knocking over,

Such lust, lovers never last.