The stage is set for the night. The Queen is heavily perfumed and drowsy. The lights glow gold in the sepia hue  while I slowly blow smoke so blue  a little samba… a little waltz… the twinkle… The gamble is obvious but still so subtle….too subtle so what? I needn’t raise my voice again. I’m back to Sunday night  and it’s just a re-run, I hear the crackle of love given without expectation without hesitation without delusion or possession… the warmth and the ease of then, always then. ahh love; that, that…. ghost. while words fail like rain falls   outside my window and I’m still here. I’m still here. I’m still here. until… I’m not.