A whip-poor-will cries out in the distance, with a distinct and eerie song... While up above Cygnus soars, his vast wings star-tipped and strong.
There's something about summer evenings that remind me of you... When the sun begins to retreat so that the stars can come through...
There is no final notice or friendly reminder when people are meant to leave us. They are taken. Without apology or remorse.
In my mind we're sharing this cigarette while passing it hand to hand... But then I remember that you're not really here... And it falls right into the sand.
The anxiety I can't place penetrates my stomach in uneasy twists... Subsequently churning, knotting, and rioting against my acidified lunch.