Rusted sand and sage-ribboned dunes
stretch far as the eye can see.
Tattoos fade and nostalgia ripens
Like the bitter fruit of our intentions—
A mystery even to ourselves.
This is the desert where we waste our youth.
Geckos slurp our spit from rocks,
While rattlers laze in the noontide sun,
Every day seems hotter than the last,
Until night prowls around, offering peace
On the melodic wings of insects.
This is the desert where we waste our youth.
We used to wonder our destination,
Keep track of where we’d been,
Until the desert rainstorms washed away
our footprints, our compass, our map.
Only then could we find the way.
This is the desert where we waste our youth.
Everything that once felt important
No longer carries the weight.
As the desert shifts with the wind,
So is a moment erased by time,
Except when we stop to bottle the sand.
This is the desert where we waste our youth.
Chickadees wing the violet dusk,
As clouds swirl ‘round the moon,
Your voice casts a spell over dancing flames
Stoking the fire higher and brighter,
While we get drunk on impossibilities.
This is the desert where we waste our youth.
Our youth is a desert wasted.
Kit Kingstad 