Twilight now finds her lying cold,
Veiled in lingering moonlight grace;
Her breath a hush, her eyelids hold,
The fragile world of slumbered space.
She lies in butterfly wings, Valletta lace,
Black as night, crimson-trimmed aglow;
Silk drapes ivory thighs from hip to knee,
Veiled secrets none may dare to know.
Soft shadows gather about her bed,
Caressing the curves that night would keep;
Whispering dark through the air they spread,
Guardians born from the breath of sleep.
She drifts on silver-clad dreams,
Hoarding her breath, her pulse beats faster;
He leans from dusk between her dreams,
Not angel, nor shade, but her echo’s master.
His form powerfully built, yet in outline svelte,
A phantom wrought of yearning and night;
His voice, the hush that bids her yield,
To endless depths beyond her sight.
Mind first, spirit; then her breast—
Till dreams enfold what day concealed;
In silent thrall, she finds her rest,
And every doubt in her heart is sealed.
By her breath he endures, her stillness he reigns,
Where surrender begins and never dies;
Giving life to his form, dreams wildly forlorn,
Wakening bans his shade with her sighs.
He lingers there, unseen yet known,
A shadow pressed to her sleeping form;
Her warmth his tether, her dreams his throne,
Her yielding heart, his nightly storm.
Dawn steals him softly, in regret,
Leaving the air with his scent of rain;
Her lashes stir with morning’s threat,
And sleep sighs softly, breaking its chain.
Yet in her eyes, when night returns,
The hush of twilight will remain;
Her dream-guardian’s rule resumes,
His shadow returns to reign in vain.
