Listen

Sun Kil Moon.  Listen.  Kill me on a soft autumn night, blackness only half-lit by partial moon.  I kick around Slocum's solitude .  A party somewhere close by to which I am invited but cannot attend, a lost great love somewhere near, too, to whom I've not spoken for a year, more.  Another, an email.  Two.  Two loves.  Three.  Only me, though, and this, this and the whiskey in the glass at my wrist that whisks me away far and near, there and back, magic on a velvet night.  I am old again, I am young.  How much melancholy required in an average life?  Like passion, more for some than for others.  We imagine.  Things felt, things lost.  Tonight, though, events as tiny as the tides of small lakes loom large.  A romantic heart. Whose?  Sun Kil Moon.  Listen.