Night Cap

The discovery that you like cherries comes with the discovery of Tequila Rose and the lateness of both introductions hits you the way milk is painted pink by the right amount of red. Gentle. Subtle. Absolute. Like the finality in the absence left by all the cherries you had thrown away. Like the certainty held by the eyelids just before they shut into sleep.

Cobwebs

wafting in one's peripheral vision blown softly by some wind magnified then blurred by the night turn out to be tendrils of stray hair

the fingers instinctively pull them away from the face and the legs are willed to keep going forward into the small hours

but from the corner of one's eye one remembers the dance from the corner of one's eye