In the embers of the dying night, I look up at the stars, and back; try to see their reflection in my sheets. I think of the past week, of who had been there. It’s not like I had a choice; I can blame the stars, the position they’ve fallen back into, one more step in the boring ballet of the cosmos. The time of the season, an old song goes. Old songs say a lot of things their brittle little recordings don’t mean.
Goodnight to the dawn of July. Goodnight, scarlet smothered sentinels; your time has done.
