summer evenings

soaked in smoke
eyes trace a timid breeze.
leaves rustle in the distance
even as the skin cringes
in the decadent stillness.

a bird, familiar
but unacquainted
calls on its friend.
time to head home.
perhaps.
the phone rings.
and silences itself.

the taste of onions
(the lingering memory of a torrid lunch)
warms the breath
and leaves the trail cold.

summer evenings
are ill suited
to the heart’s loneliness.