Occassional Streetlight.Sat on the ledge, late, drawing the last dose of bittersweet nicotine.
The windows are never closed here, the air blows through this place carrying it's sounds and smells of the town.
One leg hangs out of the window and half closed eyes stare out to the horizon where land meets black sky and roads lead.
Moths in the streetlight below batter themselves against it's orange halo and drag my attention to them. Again and again they slam against it's sensual glow unable to resist the chemistry of their passion.
I remember the days and grin.
Occassional streetlight, frequent moth.