The night is for the lonely,

For poetic lines without rhymes,

For the ones who cradle pillows to replace another's warmth,

For me. For you.

The night is singular and surreal,

Like the dancer whose partner's waist

Lies wherever she puts her empty hand in space.

"Their" heads spin to the tune of the ideal,

Their movements in sync with her lonely breath.

But I suppose you always look silly

When you dance a two-step tango

Without passion burning in your eyes.

The night is for reflections,

For those who see masterpieces

In the patterns of smeared mascara,

For those who unlace their tight bindings

And watch freedom leak lazily from their lashes.

The night is for thought…

And I think of you.

Your name repeats

Like a broken, broken jazz record in my head,

And as my skin tingles with near sensation

When I imagine the warmth of your hand on mine,

I wonder―

I hope

You can feel it too.

I hope you can feel that this night is not just for the lonely,

But for those who have nothing yet everything to give,

For those who want a chance at a pas de deux.

It's for those whose hearts are connected by hope

Across twinkling stars of an unconscious sky:

This night is for me, baby,

For you.