In my nest of stones I have not slept. Upstairs the neighbors fight over how best to spend their time as it silently slips through the space between fingers. As the last grains fall it seems reasonable to be present for those hours remaining. The windows are dark in the townhouse across the way but for a lamp shrouded in a rose colored scarf. Stirred by the sound of an ocean breeze I imagine I am a pale warrior charged with the safety of sleeping birds as a cat passes by casually eyeing them from a wire fence. At last when dawn climbs above the ocean I can see deep amber on the shore, the color of my lover’s eyes when aroused. Those subtle hues of gold that glint and sparkle in my half empty glass. I spend my night rearranging decaying books, drifting down smoke filled halls, pillaging my mind.
In the hushed silence between waves sighs fill the night as stars come alive and the breeze is a soft poem. Nude in the moon light but for drifting shadows the swirl in your glass keeps perfect time with far off thunder. I need to look away from your gun powder eyes that lethal shot before the fluttering of a thousand butterflies betray me. I breathe in the circlets of your cigarette and the honey sweet scent of willing hostages. As fragile as fireflies we escape to the madness of our minds where all we have to do is live.