It's normally around this time, this waste-land hour when the world is semi asleep and the cities are darkened between us.
It narrows to mere rudimentary items...breathing, heart beat. Simple stuff.
The transition from winter to spring can be desolate. Cold, barren trees unbecoming and bereft of even the tiniest of leaves. Brake lights and knobs turned to heat and car rides in quiet silence. Golds of a morning, pinks of a sunset. These all remain the same.
An afternoon drags its heels in and lumbers toward an end of day.
I feel you.
I feel the way nylon envelopes me and contorts against me. That is you. It is the clench of you against me that leaves grooves and indents.
I settle in and the feeling vanishes. As you are not really here at all. I succumb and start to haltingly fall asleep.
When a sudden fractional bit of you cleaves into me and I awake and realize against the backdrop of night that I am exceedingly alone.
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