The lingering smell of hummingbirds
wet with rotten cigarette butts
travels faster than I.

As words roll off my tongue
into the water,
she is silent.

I listen,
over contemplating,
analyzing my lack of
sense.

I listen,
the buzz of repent for words spoken
too soon
mimics the fallen leaves

who suddenly brown
as they hit the ground.

For some reason,
she still provides me
a seat in the present tense

And with this last warmth
and my final sense of sight,
I am relieved.