Nocturnal Confessions

The night is a beautiful woman, her lustrous obsidian mane bearing the comets;

in her eyebeam - bottomless - the lights that have guided sophists and pleaders to their profoundest avowals;

her ripe, sanguine lips whispering sweet nothings, seemingly meaningless, that make of vices virtues.

 

She is untameable.

 

But when no one is looking, she runs her hormic hands over your body, revelling.

Never would she admit that her finest masterpiece, the aurora borealis, was, intrinsically, born from the gleam of words when you speak.

 

Not once has her heartbeat woken you at night,

not once have you noticed the lingering haze of her perfume upon waking in the morning.

 

If she had a choice, she would still be with you by daylight.

Reviews

[Mia Fawkes]

Jesus, this is /amazing./ Your writing and use of words seriously got to me. Truly beautiful piece of work, hands down.