'It's not that, not exactly.'

Silver wind howls in a swelling: night.

'Not like you said. That it's a dying. It's not that at all.'

Then tell me. Say it like you said it then. That there's a rush.

'A dying. A leaning up against the wall in lineup for the gallows. All I've seen.'

'It's not like you say. It's not that at all. It's like that time you held me up, that morning with the coffee.'

'That there's a rush.'

'That morning you were there and ripping open packs of sugar: cleaving 'em wide and letting fall the tiny crystals down into that musty colored joe: you were there and said to not let things that boil lie: that burning things are always catching fire. Things that burn unseen will catch to fire, you had said.'

'Said I'

'The coffee's too damn hot, you'd always say: that was there as well. That it'd burn your lips and keep you days from tasting, said the coffee's too damn hot and makes you numb, you said. You couldn't taste a thing. You said it but it sat there all the while and I let it keep to boiling 'till it fell into those porcelain old cups we got some yester: steaming rank and pissing out a cloud of bitter musky stuff, you know. And I brought it down on over to the counter and you sat there just watching, humble, proud, i guess, untouched, you sat. I remember. One for you and one for I and you thumbed your thumb quick through the ring of porcelain, and you sat there without a face: I remember. And you took a maiden sip, you always said the first was maiden: numb and swelling on your tongue you said, the dry heat. That burning things are always catching fire. Just a sip and quick and you placed again the porcelain on counter: I could see it then. But I instead just took a mighty sip like always. Did you remember that? That I always had it set hot as the sun. But you couldn't stand it. I could see it then. You cocked your waist then and turned and looked into the space's outer: just a dusky hall and a sorry room. Phantoms, you always said you saw. Ghosts and things. I remember. In the hall. Just wisps and things like tendrils dancing naked in the deep, you said. Like poetry. But then you were there and looking out and then you lit a smoke and said that things that burn unseen will always catch to fire: I could see it then.'

'I never said a thing. Say the old words. Say it like you said it when there wasn't all this clutter.'

'And then I finished mine and sat and looked on beaming at you sitting there in ratty clothes. You said you had to leave soon. And spun around and grabbed your case and papers, leaning over 'cross the counter, you were there. And then your elbow spun on back and heavy over went the coffee, you remember? And it flowed on out and fast and down across my legs and chest, a little through my hair and scalding piping hot on my neck, do you remember? I could see it then. You threw the case down pulsing like a little dog or something, rushed and panicked and without a thought of what to do. And sudden then you pulled on out from somewhere just a mildewed stained old rag and bent to press along my chest and thighs and neck the rag to sop up all the burning, all the burning stuff and there you leaned and looked all sudden still and deep into my eyes and I remember: you could see that I was naked then: in that rush in the heat, that blisterpopping heat and I was naked in my eyes and so were you, do you remember?'

'A dying. What I said. That all there is is dying.'

'And you were keeling over just a little just to catch up with your rushing heart. And you stood up then and shrugged and saw the sun outside without a phantom anywhere at all. And walked on over casual to pick up your old leather case, sopping up the rest of all the joe with just the rag beneath your foot and I could see it then. That in the rush was just the start of something. That there was something grand about the naked swelling vicous bite of something savage: but there always the sun and there was always something underfoot to sop up with a rag. That there were some who got lost in the fury and others that would stay to sop things up. That somehow both could be there, all a part of just the ugly dance we're born to: that I could be naked for you in my eyes and always, even through the sopping. I don't know.'

'I hope it's true, all that. I hope there's truth in that.'

'It's easier to think so.'

'Just say it like you said it before: that there's a rush.'

'You know it. It's old. That there's a rush when a tired soul meets another. That there are things you shouldn't say.'

'I wish your coffee didn't keep me from tasting you.'

'Just remember. It's not a dying. It couldn't be. I could see it even then, it wasn't dying.'

'I'll still be there at the end with a filthy rag, even if we're dying even now.'

The wind howls light and just a touch and through the window. Ash on end of cigarettes goes pinwheel flying skyward.

'Just remember that it couldn't be. It's all we have is that it couldn't be a dying.'

'But it's all I've seen.'