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.