The sky is smoothest in the minutes just before sundown. Sitting on the porch for hours at a time, sipping green tea, or vodka depending on the day’s torments & proclivities, reading poetry as if it mattered, we called it “the golden hour.”
We feigned renewed surprise each time the light shifted, each time a raccoon or a skunk came waltzing into our frame of reference from a treetop or sewer grate. Part time jobs sustained us, allowing us ample leisure time in which to wonder where the world was headed, and why it didn’t seem to include us in its plans.
Our hearts were growing more accustomed to each others peculiar rhythms, and each time the golden hour approached we always seemed to find ourselves together on the porch. Sometimes one of us would bring a guest, some new girl to wonder helplessly alongside us, or else an admirer of the musical compositions some of us felt compelled to cobble together once the city was dark and still.
After a few seasons carrying on in this aimless manner, we dispersed. Back then the sadness never left me, but of course now that those days are long past I miss them dreadfully. What is this riddle of pathos, this contradiction of abstraction & lived experience, in which memory must possess the favored status, regardless of the fundamental pain or error of the circumstances it represents?
We drew abstract patterns in the sky with music.