Latenight
The setting sun has a way
of creeping up on you
with cherry red coloured dreams,
nights as naughty as little gnomes
flitting about in escapades
of soft silk lusts.
Some part of you is like
the moon
softly glowing beside me on
my too-small bed,
and the monumental loneliness
you wear as a halo must be a
trick of the eye despite
keeping me awake,
hunched over a folder of
unedited poems at 2:45AM.
When your soft whispers
unleashes time to take the
fullness of today
into the emptiness of tomorrow
and slip into that twilight zone
where all the magic materializes
on why we love these special spring days;
We are the awoken ones,
Our muse we hope to stumble
on it only by stars-and-streetlights,
somewhere between the dusk and dawn.
I wonder what the moon dreams
of when the sun tucks it into bed
at dawn as your eyelids flutter
and your breathing hitches for a moment
before you roll over, face the wall,
parting clouds with a small sigh.
And then, you fall asleep.
Small yet heavy breaths
thumping on my chest as
you lay your head against
mine while the clock ticks five.
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