Memories of Midnight

she was like acoustic sunsets and jazz nights like folk dances and lofi playlists like abbey road on the dark side of the moon like blankets in the dead of winter; like sitting on staircases; sitting on rooftops; sitting by the river under the pale moon light, sipping red wine, swapping stories, chuckling, meandering. but we were like fickle candles in the middle of the night casting towering shadows of flickering desires; well kept secrets hidden in the dark. I can't really remember for the life of me what kind of music she liked.

I don't think we ever danced together; if we ever sat on staircases; if we ever drank together. oh I don't think we ever cared for it. I only remember vaguely. but I remember she would coo, perched atop her nest, with green tea in her palms, awaiting streaks of orange, in the darkness of the early morning sky. I can't remember what we talked about during the eternity of our embrace; but I remember the streaks of passion in her breath ; the streaks of love in her hair; the quiet warmth of her neck; the fires; the waterfall. I remember the sunsets. I remember the stolen hours. I remember warmth and I remember the darkness. I never knew what to say to her. everything sounds too loud when it's pitch dark. and so the warmth was enough. I would have told her I loved her. but something told me it would get lost in the darkness; something told me that the warmth was enough.