The rain slides down the canvas, mixing sweet
And pungent on the hems of silken cloth
As we forsake our innocence; betroth
Yourself to jasmine, only darkness sees
Your nakedness. Oh Layla, born of Nyx,
I fall before you, servant of your eyes,
Your lips, your honeyed tongue, your supple thighs.
I wrap you in the brightening sky, affix
The moon as it fades, and comb your tresses
With mountain peaks. Forgive the sun its light,
For while night-oaths are purest, there is deep
Authority in day-made promises.
I’ll lie, bask in your grace, your acolyte
Until the stars depart for endless sleep.