Over time, a lover of the night hours I became. A tree that grew in a room. The Saints of Wear visited and solitude stroke like fever.
Torchbearer of fear but of desire too, the moon circled, covered, dressed the stained world. The blast furnace city ignited. My blood ignited too.
Then came you, sent by the fireworking god, to take me. With your scimitar eyebrows, thirst on the fingertips. Harsh as battle.
Opposite me you sat and opened an ocean look. Crucified look. Inside, it contained the days and the silence.
With murdered breaths we sat. Thunders crowned us. The horses of the bodies bolted.
Familiar as the sun you were. The skeleton of pleasure you wore. You gave me the kiss that with the eyes is given.
We climbed on the carved faces of memory. We waited at the mercy of the sunrise. Martyrs, in the feast of holy instincts.
Innocent we were not. We tiptoed on cliffs, shouted at the vengeful sky. You were kissing, talking, flying, forgetting the small tomorrow.
The moon -an aristocratic wound- shone overhead. We touched the maidenhead of flowers, drank the ripe of April. Built dreams.
On the sixth of the night, like a morning you left. My soul left me too. And so, over time, a lover of the night hours I became.