The spirals on my notebooks look sick, an ebony and glass desk under a ceiling of exotic lights, the thundering of a bitter headache and how you wait on the September darkness, sitting in a dark window, watching the oblong shadows walk outside as dusk approaches, the exploding galaxies of nymph-like fireflies and loving scent of wet, drenched cedar and rain-slick dark brick steps broken with well-loved use, ferocious cobblestone under a bloodred hue and calming glow of torch bugs and the errant stray shard of hushed light, a low-lit whale-lantern looking for a lost and cavalier cat playfully gallivanting among the story of the lonely ghost-lilacs and lovely chalked-white bones of the hallowed and forlorn, forgotten and forgiving graveyard.