We delight in this liminal space between seconds and years, 
Stealing a moment of solitude in back alleys and fire escapes—
A fondness borne from our habit of keeping eyes open through the 
    Vacant darkness of estranged, nocturnal asylums.  

He looks like Hades, flicking his cigarette into the pooling mirror of night. 
These spaces are odd, steeped in a drunken, glinted blur, but he takes my hand—
Leading me through all this oppressive architecture, cast-iron shadows, 
    And raining stars. 

I pray no one discovers all the time we hid for ourselves,  
But we are one being that bears a sorry hand
    The two of spades and the seven of diamonds.
This night is waxing and the clock is off—and yet,
    We dream in these shades of noir.
The tasteful gradient of tragedy and magic
    Sustained between black-and-white scenes.
He sees the beauty in a simpler tone—
    Waving off doubt like shedded strands of hair
    I’ve left on his shoulder.

His love has discovered no sin,  
    It does not tremble nor find temptation,
It looms monolithic against arbitrary impulses and authorities.
    I call and he comes—the same romantic song over-and-over—
    Steadfast in its certainty.

Somehow, the days and nights have overturned—death and life press me into liminality.
    He remains my Polaris by sound alone—
    His name ringing out like a church bell.
And for the chance moment of our meeting,
I think nothing could be better than this.
This smoke, pooling out from the little threshold we inhabit,
Scores everything in a hazy grayscale—
Muddling the world and all its odd subjects,
Obscuring fate from finding its cold finality.