gentle hands cross to stroke the sunlight cradling your eyes. sinking letters narrate secret sorrows at dusk. feverish hope rises with the clinking of glasses against the nestled moon. the words, the letters, the sounds become a frail attempt to fill in the absence, your place. it's a jarring heatless silence and i'm sorry for my abruptness, but this absence always returns in blackness, insistently invading.