it's only nine,
where the night barely shows its deep secrets
yet i already am sharing mine with it.
in between the pandemonium
and the faint sounds of television
in the dim light of living room,
i tell the night of how i crave for your skin.
how every little touch of yours would wake the butterflies inside my stomach,
how soft your milky face would feel like,
and how i want to connect the constellation of moles and imperfections in your perfect face.

it's only nine,
the time i want to breathe you in as i hold your tiny hands,
that i'm convinced would feel warm in the midst of howling wind.
i want to hold you and tell you my restlessness of not having you by my side.
it's the first time i want to see your face instead of the gleaming stars above,
because your eyes hold more than millions stars and constellations in the sky.
but don't tell the night, for it would be jealous of you.