nocturne, by memory

I still have dark dreams.

It is late, late enough that dawn curls at the corners of the street, a promise of orange and red that threaten to spoil the perfect blanket of darkness.

It is late, and I am outside your house.

I call to you.

…

You come awake, laying silent in your bed.

A minute, two, and then you are slipping out from between the sheets, opening the front door and stepping outside.

…

Your robe slips from your shoulders.

You join the moonlight.

…

There is much I want to tell you.

I know so many new things. My teeth have only become sharper, sharp as the crease of pain in the absence of the devotion it evokes, sharp as the curved knives that fit into my hands like guilty lovers.

Much has changed, but my hunger.

My hunger is an old hunger.

…

I have no words, here.

…

We are standing, facing each other.

Waiting for sin, or salvation, or something that tastes like both.

We will wait forever, but dawn will not wait for us; it quiets all dreams.

…
……
…

My friend.

My dearest friend.

I still have dark dreams.