Photographers of the Night

blueintheface

When October came, our favorite thing to do—
Lie below the blue and black nights.

There we were, her and I
Sharing two bottles of cheap red wine
Label torn off, naked
In the foggy mist of night.

She looked to the moon, said
“it looks like a rose petal,
But the rest of the flower’s almost dead.”
I stare at the stars, said
“they look like eyes”
“white irises of peace” she said
As softly as the night is burned.

There we stayed,
Privileged to the great court of the sky
We watch the murders of stars.

Most nights we gave those stars our undivided company,
Others we slept,
Blanketed by the Northern Lights
Pillows made from each other’s breath
Awakened by the foreign sun.

And here we are, again
In the last hour of the last night of October’s fallow ceiling.
I smoke my smoke
She hums an unfamiliar tune to the moon.
We cannot see each in this growing dark—
Just brush hands as we pass the wine.

Our wine blurs our eyes, our focal lens
Making the vast, dying panoramic that much greater
And the stars, already deceased, shine brighter.
We are the last photographers of this fleeting twilight.

justam

I like this one.