A story unfolds in my ears,
an audiobook of war, remembrance, intrigue—
listening as the moon, waxing gibbous rises.
My evening under indigo blurs
as the memory of someone gone
but as near as a click:
a photo of the gibbous moon sent,
intrudes, blends—
where is the line between story and need?  

Am I right to look for boundaries or let them blur?  

Just a bit more moon,
just a sip of single malt
and the smoke from a cigar
to tease just a hint of recall, return,
full like it was once or could be—
or do I bookmark the playback?
and let our shared fiction be enough.