Ms. Night

Night is the kind of mistress who keeps her voice hushed.  Her moans are low growls trapped in her throat, as not to wake the neighbors.  We have paper-thin walls that Night paints black and silver.  Night nips at my bottom lip and sucks the blood.  Kisses the skin until it clots.  Night braids her fingers with mine while the record player hums lullabies straight into our pores.  She covers me in darkness while I sleep.  She provides a canopy for dreams.  A canvas for inspiration to be scrawled across at three A.M.  Night is the kind of mistress I’d make coffee for.  Eggs over easy and buttermilk pancakes in a stack to the sky.  But come morning, Night is gone.  The blankets radiate my own heat back down on me and there’s a trail of stardust on the hardwood.  It’s the only way of knowing that Night had really been with me at all.