The game was played, some hot summer night
and the humidity's entrails scattered the darkness' winds.
Though I recall with ease, my opponent-
my honorable, forever-cherished, predatory opponent-
the game itself blurs with the ticking forward of time.

We played over hand-rolled cigarettes and gin & tonics
seeking, not fine spirits, but the depressing buzz
we sat on the porch of the cabin, surrounded by forest.
We played, to lose ourselves in some worthless pursuit
and instead the life-affirming quality of the trivial.

The game began; his face spoke to me throughout
the wrinkles were relaxed, yet the eyes stayed bright;
the game lasted for hours into the night
nicotine, alcohol, and the tension of that game
yielded a high-like trance in our sleep-deprived minds.

Back and forth, turn after turn, an upper hand was never gained
respect for each other formed on our lips
in smiles from the heat of our joy.
The high from the night grew stronger
with our solace from isolation.

Then the sun cruelly rose, and he won.
I felt empty with the end of it,
like the death of one's father, the death of the moment.
I'd kneel before a deity I don't comprehend
for one more of those eternal moments.

I haven't seen him since; I left the next day
dreary, muggy rain marked my departure.
I think of him and the night, when my melancholy takes over:
the dim porch light illuminated the stoppage of time.
What beautiful power we grant, to the smallest of things.