Miss You in Montana

Have you ever watched a storm
roll in across the ocean?
Perhaps the river would have to do.
He brought acrid red wine and white plastic cups.
This moment was the last as I knew him.
This was the night he intrigued me the most,
lingering on the rocks, watching
the storm roll in, waiting for him to roll out.
Montana called him tomorrow,
but I called him tonight,
away from the river and into the reach.
The field was soaked in rain and lightning,
our earnest excess of energy.
Or maybe it was the wine.
But St. Christopher had carried us there,
directly below the heavens that bellowed so wildly.
Rain kissed our skin softly, and we mimicked its tranquility.
I watched as the storm rolled in and you rolled away,
fading into nothing but these:
the letters and poems you never read.