To the night, Buenos Noches.

Too many moths linger around the light spilling like triangles from streetlamps. The air is fresh. It smells like freshly cut grass, though this city has but a few shaded patches, and more trees than anything else. Cars race by begging to stop, begging to be thrust into park, begging to put to rest their occupants. But, not in an RIP way. Street lights change every few moments. Bikers race by begging to be hit, begging to get home quickly, begging to stop. August wind doesn't cut like January's. It's soft and sweet and warm. And I am there, too. Stopping as the light beckons me. Stopping to fumble with my keys. Stopping because I'm waiting. Waiting for another soft gust of air as the night exhales. Leaving me euphoric. Waiting for nothing and waiting everything and waiting because sleep cannot come soon enough.