every last drop

the last of the year winds it's way down the calender. moseying through spikes and troughs in temprature. last night we huddled in climate controlled rooms, feasting on geographically nonsensical dishes, smelling like home.

this morning brings reprieve and we sprawl through the hours. catching coolness on the tip of our tongue. my lists beckon but i am caught in the inertia of the space between the end and beginning.

this is a simple luxury. small bands of comrades, the last of us waiting out the summer. the town drained of all but straggler and nomads. passing days on balconies and in pools.