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.