Naufrago No More

I thought the twilight would never get here.
The moment when the snoring of Father Time syncopates the rhythm of the fog horn in the harbor.
That moment when it's still dark but one can feel the heat of the impending sun creeping just under the horizon.
This is when he comes to me.
Valor stripped.
Clothes, the same.
There is nothing visceral about this moment.
We are simply raw.
Club anthems and rarified DJ rants are hushed, and Joni and Van and Bob take to the stage.
They play so lowly they could feasibly be conductors on the underground railroad of our conversation.
We don't cheat anyone; ourselves or our lovers, when we speak like this.
This is rejuvenation.
This is good.
Our voices hoarse from a week's worth of drinking in one night and smoking cigarettes at a dangerous clip.
Skin shines with the residual salt of so much dancing.
His voice is a supple sweetness hidden inside the frightful pith of a pineapple.
I'm just fruity.
Easy fruit, with edible skin and without a stone.
This twilight talk is different.
This talk has garnered my tears.
This is the time I leave him, for once.
This feels good, shoe on the other foot.
This feels good, pushing him away.
This looks foolish, but it's the smartest thing I've done in years.
This sounds like an intervention, but it's closer to an exorcism.
It's about time for Joni to slide pick her way off to California, and my time to pick myself up, ragged and snotty, and away to bed with me.
His bed.
Not my bed.
Not our bed.
There are no more pills to be had, no more whiskey to be drunk, no more cigarettes to be smoked.
There are no more words, other than "good night."
His arms pull me in and my legs allow it out of exhaustion and custom.
His lips kiss the salt from my cheek, and I am resolute to stand there until his body disappears into the embrace of his new lover.
That's something we agreed upon in the settlement:
He gets the man.
I get the sunrise.
I got the better end of the deal.