She tastes like blackberry ashes, heavy with June and wet with July.

Last thoughts are funny like this, creatures of slick puddles of chopped off memories and shaky-kneed smiles.

"Let go," she's crying, but he can't stop kissing her now. "Logan, let go of me!"

Can he tell her? The way the roads are long. The bed always has that one spring that digs into his back. He's so tired. He doesn't have to tell her. She already knows, eyes wide and she's saying NO.

"You taste good, kid."

'Thank you' in there somewhere.

Last words are funny like this.