on nights such as this, I write without directions, destination or a starting point. my cigar is put out. I think my fingers missed the actions of the pen. 7:30 says the clock, not the time I desire. so time can piss right off, then apologize and expect forgiveness at 9:30 she’ll be here by then. but by then, time would have stopped and my eyes will notice it’s only surroundings are her smooth flesh. and that’s the only time I can part ways with poetry to put these words to rest and speak to my beloved through actions unknown to an innocent’s eyes.