Some nights

are needed and perfect. A conversation that moves comfortably between the earnest and the banal, a compelling new piano-heavy album, a smoky bottle of red, an email that makes me smile just by being there. It’s quiet outside. I exhale and I stretch and I look down the expansive wooden table to the candle sputtering out and while things don’t simply fall away, not yet, these sporadic solitary nights aren’t nearly as haunted, or as hard. Nighttime has always been when cached doubts sidle out, yet sleep comes more easily lately. It’s even quiet inside.