In the night, I close my eyes as yours open upon mine.
In the night, I am silent.
In the night, the music murmurs.
It stretches upon grey, pink, yellow ears.
But your tender lips, they ignore their pastel rhythm.
In the night, the music is waving, calling.
In the night only, skin I was unaware of speaks.
They water under aware fingers, water so warm
a kiss is too little, too young, too dry. So we cup it,
drink its warmth and spirit,
and sip it, sip it, sip it.
The music, I notice, is shying away – like my lips –
into different corners of the room. The room, I notice,
is a room of silver and gold, it spins with glamour
but eyes are far too white to appreciate any place,
any time (any colour).
The music is perhaps respecting the new but old
melody soaring from our chests( i can't hear it),
its weight reminding me of myself,
its sound beautifying my own. I sink lower into its
sounds and arms anyway.
In the night, I am loud.
In the night, I am loud.
(In the night, only the night is old.)
In the night, I will my eyes to open.
Your tongue and teeth skim lakes I have forgotten,
I will them to open but they are drawn together by colours,
oh a sea of colours. You try, too, but they sit.
Stubborn, folded, cold – they sit. In their vibrancy, they sit.
In their vibrancy, we sit. In the night, we sit. We drink,
and sink, sink, sink.
Sink into my lakes, I've emptied yours.
