And the sunset erupts over the city. He paints fireflies in my eyes. Yesterday's snow turns pink. And a few bells ring softly. Then comes his warm palm. He buries his fingers in my hair. And he kisses me. He drinks from my sudden radiance. And his lips ache with love. I silently surrender myself in his arms. I leave myself in his hands. And there is no escape. Because he is that whisper in my heart. And my tender and enchanted Darkness.
# The Night Before The night before, I'd sketched your name on the margin of a dream— a hasty thing, done without thinking, the way one might trace a finger through condensation on glass. By morning it had faded, though I spent hours trying to remember the exact curve of how I'd written it, the pressure of the pen, whether I'd crossed the *t* or left it bare. This is how memory works, I suppose— not as archive but as theft. Each time we recall something, we steal a little more from it, until what remains is only the shape of our forgetting. You came that afternoon. The light was the color of old brass, and you didn't mention that you'd seen the sketch, didn't ask why your name had been scrawled in that particular way— urgent and illegible, like something I needed to say but couldn't quite bring myself to speak aloud. We sat in silence, the kind that feels like a room slowly filling with water. Neither of us moved toward the door. That night I didn't sleep. I kept my hands open on the sheets, as though something might land there— a word, a reason, a way to tell you that sometimes the night before feels more real than whatever comes after, that anticipation is its own kind of memory, its own kind of keeping.
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