Night time solitude.
Cool breeze after summer rain.
Wasted voices drift in.
These first hot days.
The first June storms.
Some where between orange blossom and jasmine is her fragrance .
Ivory soap and Chinese teas.
Her hair like the sky without its stars.
Her eyes repeated in every lavender sunset.
I conjure up each image.
Walks down roads closed .
Her hibiscus, always red.
Long fingers through my hair .
It always ends the same.
My drink gone, my head spinning .
That familiar feeling in my throat .
Its so hard being alive when part of you is dead .
So hard that your heart cant be filled .
Its become ritual now.
And I am as empty as this bottle .