Last night in restless weaving
from fragile light to darkend lids
You entered my room in silence
And led me to the rooftops.
We sat under the velvet tapestry
Admidst a foggy urban glow
and dipped our hands into memories
that swirled about our fingertips
cold and somehow distant.
Earl Gray was a friend to us then,
bergamot and oranges,
the day we took the bridge to Manhattan
to photograph the downfall
in shades of black and gray.
How early morning, our breath rose
small clouds that made us laugh
as they found the darting rays of light
and played there, in the sun.
And you, with your dark smile would,
make magic come from six old strings
a melody from nowhere
that made dancers of us all.
The way we painted, feverent nights,
The maddening rush of it all,
The way we'd wrap our icy fingers
around paper cups, our coffee black
Like the center of that concreat gray
from which you viewed the world.
And as we sat, old friends again
the moon smiled a wicked crescent
and a coldness from within me sang,
that this was just a dream.