Midnight Stroll

A weathered, wet road, paved with old concrete,
Snappy air of night: cold and velvetlike,
Trickling around in abrupt ripples,
Moist with whispers of mizzle that stopped a while ago,
Drawing my bleary steps for a midnight stroll
With a person, robed in an attire of white fabric,
Downy like the tufted white of cogon,
Spangled with roselike sequin.
Her shoulders adjacent to mine,
Girdled inside an unseen, subtle blanket of silence,
Letting the nocturnal, occult ambience to seep in,
Entangling our fingers titillatingly,
Confines of our palms eluding the cold
Outside,
Slashed with a slick of sweat;
Her eyes: cervine and glinting, a brook
Of gleaming blue, a homely snippet;
And I walk along with parallel steps,
And inhale the scent of a montage
Of Nottingham Catchflies
And Casablanca Lilies,
And her unspoken, suave essence- a broken ceramic of eeriness,
Repairing itself in unheralded moments.
I long to hear her chanson again,
That I once did in a secluded cabaret.
I blink my lashes and she loosens her grasp,
And hurries ahead and turns at the next
Turning, disappearing again.
The crimson dust around me dances haphazardly,
Crying out a sordid wail of solitude,
Its rusty tears whetting the blade of the
Sinister knife in my breast pocket;
And I, aided with a sliver of smirk,
Let out the usual gasp at its silent crescendo, like always.
I’d never hear her chanson again, I suppose.