It is ten in the morning and the sun still has not risen. We sit on our balcony sipping scotch and stare at the moon. We think it is the moon that has not set. It must have organized a coup. It has grown jealous of the sun’s attention, feeling itself the lesser god.

We have been outside forever, our language has become foreign to the others, but not to each other.  Our words are sung to each other as if a psalm.  The world that is outside our embrace could have ended and we would not care.  We have been inside each other forever.  I stare at your sad face, framed by the rays of the moon’s subtle heat, and realize again just how beautiful you are.

We see the first awakening of light, the color purple of the bruised moon, and quickly escape to the inside.  We sit side by side in our dark room high above the lifting fog and feel crushed by the rising sun.