Summer's Fat Dripping Down Our Chins

Here we are in the thick of July. Deep in the heart of this hazy, thrice-hexed season. We're sitting on the porch, breathing heavily in the descending sunlight. Our movements are slow and thin, as if our limbs were too large and too porcine to penetrate the calm and ease of this moment. This is the moment when I learned about how I really felt about you, myself, and every item in my life.

It isn't so much indifference as another greater sort of benevolent apathy. Here on the porch, safe within its halcyonic columns, I can clearly see the sun dipping below the horizon. Above us, high above the purpling clouds, come out the fireflies, and we are lost. For our gaze drifts between them and the curling smoke that comes in waltzes from our lips. One, two, three, one, two, three, and again again the waltz- breathe breathe smoke, breathe breathe smoke. Rising from the ashes of our cigarettes are moths that flutter in the growing moonlight. They fly west towards the sky's lowering flame, like humans towards delusions.

We, all of us, all that matter for the moment, are here, gathered on the porch. We watch the towns around us, and we watch the flickering light from the cities on the hill. What more can one ask than this, this twilight paradise? Truly on our porched thrones we are kings and queens, emperors and empresses, coronated with soft fluttering breezes that chill our sweat dripping bodies. We sit in the blessedly growing darkness as the fat of summer drips down our chins.