My gas tank has sprung a leak, leaving me on empty. Fires ignite from spilt gas, lighting the palms, the mangroves, the gators lolling in nearby canals.
You watch with no comment. Illness is a foreign country and you don't speak the language so the gators and I watch until the flames blend into sunset.
By morning, the palms are green. Gators crawl out to lie in the sun as if yesterday never happened – as if it was a dream born from the fevers torching me, my tank still empty. You disappear at first light.
gulls flap overhead
towards the sea