The summer mist pours into the valley just as the sun sets, smelling strong of the alfalfa freshly cut in the next field, paving oil, down on the route, and the last of the season’s lilac blooms from bushes that escaped my great grandmother’s garden, 50 years ago, combining so the air is thick enough I can drink it, sweet, gulp at a time, until I’m intoxicated, and floating and believing the world is alright, and buried in that is the heavy smell of you, the summer sweat in your pits that I can just track, whether it’s actually there, memory, or just a hope, so I follow the trail down to the shed in the back of your house, where you lie underneath the truck again using baling wire to hold the exhaust into the muffler, even though this hasn’t worked the last three times, but it’s fascinating because you’re so much smarter than that, you keep doing the same thing even though it doesn’t work, just as I am, approaching you in this state of desire and inebriation, and we both know your handiwork will unravel in a matter of a few days, once you’re on those rough road from your house to mine, just as I know my work this evening will unravel in seconds before you even become aware it happened.
You always get aroused when you work on your car, and while you’re under, I see only your lower half, with patches of sweat soaking through your T-shirt and jeans, and as usual, your Carharts can barely restrain the force of your excitement, and sometimes, you don’t even try to contain it, and work unzipped, and occasionally commando, like you’ve done for years, and for years, I’ve been mesmerized by the power and possibility in that open fly, like an open invitation, even though I know it would all go away if I even gave you a second look, and I cannot bear the thought of not falling under your intoxicating spell, again. 
The heat of this space draws my sweat, too, slicking my forehead and swamping my pits, and making my fingers slippery enough I cannot hold the splash of your expletives or the dribble of your day to day story, but I can grasp the occasionally spurt of your Mountain Dew words of friendship and bro-hood as you recount our glorious past and contemplate our mutual future, which I doubt with fevered anticipation, as you tell me all the ways we are the perfect compadres, except the part where I really want to hold you in this place, and in those places, down there, where you would surely feel the need to wash me away, out of your way, and back into the dense summer mist. 
I walk home, alone, lit only by sparkled starlight illuminating the summer mist turned morning dew, fallen from its ethereal place of dreams and desires to be regrounded with the unforgiving truth of the earth under my retreating soles.