Sunset (will come up with a better title)

Most evenings that spring were spent on our porch,
legs stretched out on wicker, perhaps catching a whisper
of lilac, or taking in the cardinal’s last flight
from feeder to tree.

We’d watch the day’s sun drown slow and red,
to merge, we thought, with other sunsets
we had shared. You’d smoke your cigar, pour a glass
of Hennessy,

and we’d wait. You liked to tell me night only began
when every trace of light was wiped from the sky.
It was that simple. I always preferred a more unsettled
shade of twilight.

And now, after a year without your simplistic sunsets
and unmixed nights--mine still blurred and muddy--,
I want them back.