Lean your shoulder next to mine,
and whisper me a story:
we, the fellows of the night,
along the skyward helpers
of the frail moon, borrow
some of the tenebrous light
to cast wonder on the moment.
Warm we cuddle by the frost
of the tyrannical city,
and in a corner conspire
of elbows and forearms
and other treacherous plots,
insufficient but aloft
in our trench, stubbornly
under a crouching roof;
hands like sea whelps
entwine memories
of being impossibly
one, distinct currents
brewed of oil and water
that bubble on the mixture.
We, each other's blanket
on the longest night,
have made a sultry pact
of instants and returns,
to tell the quickest fiction
that survives the day,
the gaze exhausted to
soothe the voice and rest.

The End

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