Considering Love On A Porch At Night Somewhere In The South During Summertime

In the barrel moon light, I heard your body crackle like a dying fire. I was on the porch smoking my pipe and counting stars. But it was a nearly starless night, so I numbered the ones circling my aching head. There was too much brandy in me to not sway. And I listened to the floor boards creak as I rocked back and forth and stretched my knees. Our porch is so white, I thought, but a striking pale blue under the big bucket wash moon, tucked in the sky of mirthless and endless darkness. I spit stray tobacco and watched the bugs lazily bounce off the lantern. Such a tremendous glow our house has, I considered. We have our bookshelves, our furniture and a kitchen. What more we need, I don't know. But, then again, what I don't know could fill the house too.

I have these moments before midnight where I come out here to count my lucky and dizzy stars that you'll be in that bed come the morning hour. Loving you is like catching the last train home and I find myself thankful that I made it, even though I've racked up a heap of bad decisions over time. Some evenings, I think my beating heart will wake you up. Other nights, I find myself unable to sleep so close to your fire and I reckon I'm a man that should sleep in the chill of the world.

I try to be decent enough, but you...you, darling, are the quiet hum I want to hear within me. You know, your skin rides the sparse light of this dark rolling landscape and, for it, I don't quite know what to do with myself. There's an honor in the way you sleep, so content and so very within the world. Even as a living, breathing man, going on day to day, I consider myself a visitor many nights.

So, in those soul-calling hours, I drink myself into a stupor, just to make it to the bed in peace. I never stumble, but, instead, I sometimes slump close to tears before I take the first step back. As I move like a ghost, weightless and haunted, I dig out my grave of memories and, upon reaching the sheets and your shoulder, the house has become a palace.

You are beautiful, certainly, and, you won't admit it, but, you have the makings of what the world was actually, truly made for. Bless you for even making me consider prayer.

I wish I could train the fireflies to spell out your name. That would be a treat. But I'm thankful that you settle for me making you breakfast every morning.

Ah, shucks.