The Moonlight Sonata coaxes light through the window. A warm glow is between us. As our fire burns, the air becomes ash laden, we close our eyes. Once when we could still see there were hands between us, one a teacup, the kind saved for careful company, the other a nesting bird enveloping, gentle, weightless. I could feel in your arms the steel bands that hummed with precision over a vast network of machinery, driving one day into the next. The smell of heat hung on you, white heat, blast furnace heat. Skin seared to ochre, a badge, a medallion, a sign of your time. The heavy scent of oil, grease and solvents hung around your shoulders. Shoulders from where I could see a world shaped by the will of your vision, the will of your back. Your black hair, swept back by the wind or tide as you leaned in to stand your ground or go under for the third time. There is the scent of leather, smoke and grass, the chair where I waited while you slept slumped, heavy breath moist warm on the back of my neck. Our eyes open, you speak, finally, your voice is soft and hollow the way mourning doves purr as streetlamps go out. All the sadness and regret is in your eyes so your voice can carry across the room to meet the music halfway. I hold your hand like a teacup, the taste of ash on my tongue, grit in my eyes. I wish for wind, any expansion of air so I can see light through the window and feel again the warm glow between us.