But she's dead. She flares alive. I knew her. But she's dead. I flirted with her, might have been her friend, but transatlantic schedules intervened.
Words take the absent friend away again.
Aglow in summer evening, a desk-lamp's yellow moonlight peruses notebooks, houseplants, texts, while an aging woman thinks of sex in the present tense. The opening mind is sexual and ready to embrace, incarnate in its prime. Rippling concentrically from summer's gold disc, desire's iris expands, steady with blood beat. Each time implies the next time. The aging woman hopes she will grow old.