The other face of Midnight

I don't see her often, a whiff of shadow
in mirrored wall or pale afternoon sun

But come night, she's a secret to be unfolded- 
Something parched, something incomplete

Oozes out, become threads & ink 
Her fingers lift to charcoal the empty page

Blurred by moonlight,  she fetches a storm
underneath the quiet sky & labels it-  Rapture - 

The red moon is all hers, 
There's electricity in her lush ebony hair.

Where the path breaks into different crossing
There she runs to see what's coming next, next-

Come morning, there is body she inhabits. 
Numbers. Efficiency.  A box within a room.

That is what the world wants to see. She complies
by dropping a token in the metal box . Only her belly  

grumbles from this subway train chase 
with its door chimes forever opening & closing -   

Seeds.   How she loves beginnings. Every first
stolen kiss, a stab of memory lingers like dewdrops.

Desire.  The quick inhalation of passion.
Warm wine.  The bleeding of hours, sweet as tangerines.

I sometimes forget how she writes,
what she dreams of, but she lingers faint as I'm right here

By candlelight, she creaks to life,
awash with wild asterisks & stars I couldn't number -  

Her pulse grows stronger,  every season is an awakening
We disappear across the page, a duet of shade & light -   

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Self-portrait by Brian Miller ~ Thanks for the visit ~