She wore the night as a small black dress
tight across her olive skin,
and when she twirled,
the stars swayed as though
they were sequins stitched
on the fabric hugging her waste.
She drifted down the street
as though it were a river,
and she was walking on water.
Her eyes blinked and shut
those glistening sable curtains
that made my knees grow weak.
The sun will only rise with her permission,
that mistress of the night and lover of the moon,
who blew kisses my way
carried on starlight born in streetlights.

She's the one wearing heels,
and drinking strawberry wine,
yet I'm the one who's tipsy.

Roll the clouds off your lips into the blue sky,
your breath will glow red and gold,
when the sun sets like a kiss on the horizon.

Honey lets drink the nectar of downtrodden ancient gods
until your limbs fall to ruble
like the temple of their lost worshipers.
Hold loosely to my numb hand as we loose our minds
in the fog rolling through our heads.

Let's escape.

All the legions marching through our veins,
doomed to death and resurrection,
oh how familiar we will be with that destiny
having practiced so many times.
When that fate reaches our time,
and we melt once more,
busts of ink onto the page in blissful atrophy.

Let me stain your magic majesty;
sick a tempest on your tapestry-
tear those flags of modesty.
What is wine but rotten fruit,
and disguised euphoria that follows suit.
So let innocence fade,
cast in each other's shade.

Soak me in the city light,
let me be drenched in life
that could only be so vital
when fueled by a never-ending day.
Each bulb has a story,
of who walked beneath
and what transpired all those shining nights.
Let me add one more tale
to be written in neon light.