when the rose sun sets over the hollywood hills

and a quiet in my head in direct contradiction with the city, everything embossed with meaning and placement in space, that car to my left, red light means stop as in stop the car not cease all physical movement, my fingers growing tired of holding this cigarette, the bones and muscles working just so for just so long, repetitive movements through space are nearly but not always predictable.


and a warm nostalgia for things having been, the lost circumference of one's thighs, a whole absorption in this one book at this one time in which this particular writer's words spill out of you later on, ingested and chemically altered to become your own, a loss of friends, a loss of joy, a loss of complacency with lazy sunday afternoons.

but still glimpses, yes! early-afternoon brunch, a swept floor, the coolness of indoors and a curtained soft white sun, casual cigarettes and the right book, the right voices wafting in through the screens and it's ok because, you see? fleeting remembrance has so much more depth and the twilight still holds the echoes of the fire of the setting sun, ten minutes past.