I titled this "Florence'

It's peaceful here in the dark,
safe finally from the sirens' wails and the never-ceasing drone,
my only friends the flighty black shadows which extend their arms
and envelop me without ever making contact, their fingers slipping off my skin
like oil, or an eel eluding the touch it desperately wants.
Am I alone?
I used to ask the question often, but the answer seems hardly relevant now --
what would I do with the information?
Here among the shadows I make my temporary nest
out of bricks and mortar and fairy dust.
Call the mortician, the detective -- I've got a case!
Oh, but whatever you do, love, don't alert the relatives:
they're not ready to brace the cold autumn winds that you and I know so well
but that they never truly felt underneath their layers of cow skin and pig fat.
Now, with our numbing fingers, we've been given the opportunity
to chuck it away, peel apart the layers one by one.
Imagine that -- our crummy fingernails in a clean, sterile place like this --
what would the shadows say?
Dear, darling, love,
let me be.
There is time yet in the morning for stories and plans and responsibilities;
meanwhile, I relish in the twilight that's slipping from my grasp,
gone too soon and taking hope with it.