A late spring night, broken cloud holding the finished day’s heat against concrete and asphalt. You toss, knowing without looking that the bed is yours alone. It’s one of those times when you’d almost kill for love, knowing though that love is truly something to die for, that the opposite of the hollow sound of an empty heart is one that screams in the birth pains of conjoined souls. You can write for love, some address in the back of the Free Press, and if the TV spots are right you can call for it, some caricature at any rate, but you’re too old to be fooled, knowing even in this weary hour that love is a message received when unexpected.