And the night is sometimes like this,
cloudless, barren and naked,
same as a nervous girl
disrobing for a boy the first time.
Look, even the stars are
too shy to show themselves tonight.
Somewhere an owl is watching,
pensive and patient,
but what use is that?
Or the temperamental moon,
nodding its head northward,
space a never-ending shall?
You merely want what other people have,
dreams that make no sense,
an evening without waking and
wondering why love has
abandoned you this way.
But listen, sometimes the night can
no longer keep secrets.
It needs attention, too,
someone to seem interested in it,
as fickle as anyone of us.
There will be other evenings, though,
I promise, when love will arrive
like a hot seam of wind through a closed door,
wrapping its flesh-filled arms around you.
It will caress your face and smooth your hair.
It will say you’re beautiful and be truthful.
It will answer every mystery and riddle
you’ve ever had.
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