Sitting on a terrace chair the breeze moves ornaments that clash with his clean nails and restless legs. His robe, a bird print. The cigar creates anticipation of another nude, but the scene lengthens music drips and his eyes are abyssed sunsets. There is a certain melancholy in his eyes.
They’re always distant Jets wanting to take off or in the middle of a flight to I do not know what night. Perhaps escaping the fear of the wanderer waiting leaves them suspended on a pew in the clouds. I search the map of my life in the flight log, but airports are far away with the winds, and the moon.