Sitting in his leather recliner, Joseph took another sip of whiskey from a small glass. Its languid fire burned rolling down his throat warming his stomach. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped his wet lips and remembered her hands, delicate fingers rising like white doves, speaking in sentences more intricate and tender than his wooden creations.
I am not the sun, the fire is gone, he shouted while the moon’s reflection smoldered on the ancient hallway mirror. I am the old moon in the new moon’s arms.