Reaching for the impression.

He called upon it. Now he felt the land under him moving with the wind. He moves from building to building, never leaving any trace. Another lover for the night. Another bed left half empty by morning. He never could stick around in one place long enough to recollect the memories of the night before. Therefore, most lay as blurs in the filing cabinets in his memory.

Memory has never been something he can count on. Still, as he lays in the grass he recounts the days and nights before. Lovers in the afternoon, leaving in the early morning hours.

He thinks of his loved ones, and the other men laying in the grass thinking about other nights where they were ghosts. Just passing through. Untraceable. Unmentionable. Silent voices whispering into other ears. Deafening.

The sun sets on him, and he knows the time has come. Its time to hang up those boots and walk into the arms of a steady-ness that he has been so longing to embrace.

No longer an object of sexuality. His body may never feel the same, but he welcomes it. His body breathes a sigh of relief knowing it will no longer be abused by others, touched by cold hands, wrapped in sheets that aren't his.

Now, hes reaching for the impression of a warming. It may not last, but they're all willing to take that chance.