Candles on tables and nightstands. Glowing orange and yellow flames. A pad of paper with a pen on the bed by his side. Sheets with blue ink marks. A pillow wet from sweat. The window fan blows warm air.

He wakes up and reads a poem he wrote the night before. Something about her. Always about her. A woman who left him years ago in the middle of the night around three. Nowadays, he wakes up at that time and goes out looking for her all over town carrying a flashlight in one hand and a thermos of coffee in the other. He calls out to her as he walks past bars, diners, empty parking lots, dumpsters in alleys.

Virginia, he yells. Come on over here, Virginia. Lights come on in apartments above Main Street.

Do you know what time it is? People used to scream at him. These days, they just dream right through it. Asleep in comfortable beds with lovers, wives, and dogs as he shines a light on porches, dark driveways, backyards, over wooden fences.

Virginia, he raises his voice. Come home now, he says. But, no one is there. No movement at all. He just walks and wails until the sun comes up. Leaving him empty inside. Waiting for her to return home. Wanting to hear a knock on the door or the phone ring. But it never does.

He puts on old scratchy jazz records. Mingus playing Goodbye Pork Pie Hat. Miles blowing Blue In Green. On Green Dolphin Street by Bill Evans.

He sits on his broken bed and listens. Remembers making love to her with these songs in the background. Dancing naked. Sipping wine. Drunk on love.