Harbor nights

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I think of La Divina, who, all of a sudden, comes
to mind like a gift-wrapped bedtime prayer begging: pietà, pietà! Too late to play
the record leaves me with a distant memory of that great ugly voice of hers, once
and again jaywalking through a night already immortalised in polaroid pictures.

But when I lie down with my eyes closed, I touch the air saturated with the scent
of Eau de Verveine, which is puzzling because I never actually wear cologne,
and I assure myself that I could fall asleep if only I knew why the lighthouse
was no longer lit. And I swear I could hear the hoarse lament of a foghorn…

Only there was no fog.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.