matches the whirring of crickets,
fueled by bourbon, nicotine.
The clock races, counting down.
I sit out here,
surrounded by leaf,
insect wings, the irrepressible humidity of stagnant air,
of love, eons of love, of polished cherry worn thin by the cloths of a hundred years.
Restless, unfettered night.
Memories of Italy, of fireflies,
dance on my fingers.
I shake my foot.
I check the time.
How many thousands of nights have been spent
exactly like this, sitting, doing nothing,
I pull, draw close,
think. Think again. Hold imaginary conversations.
Let things slip through my fingers.