She is saying goodbye to an old friend. Discordant telephone cord pulls itself away as mosquitoes emasculate; warm summer night. Her voice lingers in the humidity perspiration drips, slides; empty whispers.
Crickets and cicadas circa 1947, running through fields at midnight riding the bike pass the gallows that was Uncle Mike's, tender breeze through hair like a mother's stroke. Shoe soles stomping cigarette buds in haste, driving through cliffs diving into continuum (then) holding out for whatever comes. No more.
All is leftβ rustling leaves sepia tinted photographs tattered edges; reminiscences of warm summer nights retold to a child.