Whispers, shadows, streetlights
cast down upon a hair hooded brow
gravel titans scrambling to mirror the star's sight.
She stood in place, a figure blessed.
Whistling something on the tip of your tender lips.
A fascinating facsimile of an angel's faltered jest.
Always ever present in a moment.
Held at a snapshot of such a frigid world, fleeting and free.
A beautiful little moment, when a moon's steadfast sigh had not yet came and went.
What a beautiful night.
What a beautiful night.
What a beautiful night.