The Dust

A piece of flash fiction.

It all started and ended on a misty night in the mountains with your voice below the hum of the engine and the distant howl of wolves. You touched the wheel like a love you had lost and I filled in the gaps, watching beside in the low lust of the moon. The one look you gave told me everything I had never felt and chose not to chase with fear that, like the asphalt we left behind, I would become the dust in your wake. Never catching, always floating, in the awe of some distant solemn night.