Ripe the delicate fig I place inside my hungry mouth,
its flavor heightened by a residue of sugar left on midnight lips
sliding sluggishly down with laudanum and brandy

Opening a cross-window, I watch your tall silhouette move
sated, down the dark street with your tricorne hat
as our smells fused with the oils of our young bodies,
I now watch them drifting in a cloud of expectation

Returning to our nest, where birds shed feathers,
for our comfort, left with imitations, by the flute and clarinet
now I lay in the fog of humidity, that holds my breath prisoner

Rest is like a midnight rider that never makes his post,
slumber will not be a visitant in this barren, gloomy, and neglected flat
far-reaching is the idealistic smile, that slides off the moon
its right eye catching on the twinkling of a star gone amiss

My heart exposed like…