Saturday night, Sunday morning. Just after midnight. July.

I’m walking Murphy. My street is a canyon of high rise apartment buildings. There’s a full moon and the night is bright white. The wind pushes party noises down the street. A girl giggles. A boy swears. Other boys laugh gorgeously. People on balconies with cigarette flares giving them away. It’s as if, in suffering, I have super-hearing. Another laugh. Another giggle. Soccer scores. Elections. The existence of God. Did I hear you brush gently, her back? Did I hear you whisper your nothings in her ear? Did I hear her breath catch for what you said?

Life above me around me, uproarious, and I’m quietly walking the moon-bright empty canyon. Murphy sniffs the grass looking for another place to mark.

But the truth is, had I been there, I wouldn’t want to talk about soccer scores and elections. The truth is, had I been there, I wouldn’t have brushed her back and I wouldn’t have had even nothing to commit to a whisper to commit to her greedy ear.

Still I shrink beneath the high walls of high life. Still, I long for contact. A smile. A look. A handshake. A touch, a finger, a word, might find me, might save me, might set me to breathing again.

Or maybe it’s just that it’s late. Maybe it’s just the music I’m listening to that reminds me of you, jellybean.

I think I shall put on Billy Idol’s Vital Idol and turn the lights down and dance around in my living room. Yes. I think that should serve quite nicely.

SS