By Scott Mittlebrun

Nights remain stranded and

I remain still

Thinking about nights I thought I would

Never remember

But think about far too often

Where I hoped the sun would never go down

And I wouldn’t have to make the morning.

They never ran out of chorizo sausage

24 hours at the tip of your tongue

Steamy hot plates and tangled dreadlocks,

The streetlights don’t dip to the music or

The purple shades.

I think of horchata blended in a twisted liter

Cinnamon collecting and milk drifting

Rice like grass rubbing against my toes…

I can’t understand how the time has gone

Especially considering where I sit now

With the lights off

With hair frozen in place

Dreaming of silky commotion.

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