The air is still thick as the sun goes down. Whatever heat is left still lingers, clinging to the shadows, trickling down my skin. The idle rumor of a porch-light on, moths and spiders gathered on the screen. Summer is green, glistening wings arising from stagnant water. Summer is blue, tall draughts of silty voices, ink blotting out the stars.
The ache returns like any tradition, missing the calendar, settling for the flesh. The stress and lull of muscle and tendon clasps hands with the sad drowned dumpling of my brains, like finding like, ill finding ill. Bone weary and soul sick, I stare out the window, watching the sky change costumes. This sorry ballad, this lonesome feel. The parts of living that are left over, scraps and offal, bitter dregs.
I could use a drink or two, a cup of coffee and a little conversation. I could use a trail to follow or a wishing star. This mood is on me, and this mood will pass. All things change, even those that endure. This is what little wisdom I have salvaged from a life lived like a riot. This is the charm claimed from defeat after defeat. The feelings come and they all but ruin me. The feelings leave and I am left alone. I could use another way.