Just barely there,
the kiss of mechanized wind brushing against my legs.
Cool hums, bursts of revving gear
A parting bubble of comfort being attacked by the suffocating heat.
Brought on by my own means.
Damn.

Songs shivering out of my speakers, telling stories, moaning tales.
Isn’t it funny how each time we meet
There isn’t a meeting?
Oh remind me of the averted eyes, the quickened pace.
Capriciously fleeting after nothing to chase.
So I rub my eyes with dusty fingers.

I guess that’s where I’m left.
Sipping Cherry Coke at midnight, stretched out to a compliant fan.
Or dare I say, Bringer of All Things Heavenly.
Let us close our eyes, then.
And I will wash my hands.