Our love is not the love of the sun, of the midday hour. It is not the love of lunch dates and coffee shops.
It is the love of midnight walks, of whiskey and smoke. Of desert bonfires and shared cigarettes.
Each day the night falls and I hear those ancient echoes of dirty jokes and sacred secrets.
I feel the glow of the street lamps. I see that summer moon that was our only witness.
The fragile luminosity disappeared with the first rays of the sun. It was fractured by the high noon.
And though I have dreaded the dawn, I stand straight.
And I stand alone.