Night.* And I think I might stay here, and pretend
I can smell your perfume on each passing shadow;
because I love it whenever you think that we're
friends: you're even more disillusioned than

I am. But this black dome above me doesn't
ricochet obscure calls and silvery hands; there
are no stars, there is no moon, and God is too
busy with the Southern hemisphere. Where

is your smile as I walk through the night? Where
is your stuttering voice, and those clumsy English
words jammed between your sweet French

lips? And where are your arms, those binding tools,
when there's an emptiness inside me aching against
the heaviness of Summer nights? This was Night.

Because if you close your eyes for a single second,
you'll glimpse at what I've been seeing since the day
you showed me true beauty.

I love you,

**Goodnight.