I think of you on nights such as this,
air crisp and damp like a Bay breeze–
the walks we might someday take
late in the night,
after i’m finished closing the cafe.
These hours belong to us,
the fringes of mankind,
the shadowlovers and moondancers.
I can call you at any hour of darkness,
unafraid of retribution,
knowing that you will fly to me.
I lock up the doors and we begin our journey–
light breezes pull me closer to you
as you say something about waiting for the leaves
to dance at our feet.
(Another few weeks, i say,
it’s my favorite birthday gift.)
My hands will be cold
but you will still enclose them with yours,
warm as always
calloused yet soft.
I shall prattle for several blocks
about the work that i do,
the jobs that i perform
with little expectation of recognition.
You will know that i am not speaking
of the building we have walked from.

when we are alone with the shadows of trees,
you will stop in the path
and pull insistently on my hands;
i will laugh and grumble something
about shower and bed and the hour,
and you will pull me closer
and graze my lips with yours.
Too soon, before i can appreciate
our solitary gift from above,
this chilled dead of night,
the empty streets,
the wooded park paths,
we will be back home–
over steaming cups
of mulled cider
we will muse on starlight
and past
and future–
And for a few brief hours
before the break of day
i will lie wrapped in your arms,
the weight of the world
off of my shoulders,
being carried by sanguine wings
to dreams of satisfaction
With You.