Midnight,
whose jet-black locks
fall in rivulets
to her waist,
a wild temptress
with starry eyes
which capture galaxies
beyond our reach,
moving slowly
and then all too fast
by 1 a.m., by Friday morning,
and Midnight moves
as if the ground was made of air
and she flies above it all,
smooth and silky like her
pale, iridescent skin
dotted with little freckles,
a pattern of constellations
upon her flesh
and
a voice
like a ukulele
played in springtime,
her laugh
which makes you feel
like that bittersweet moment
when you release a balloon
into the air,
and you watch it fade,
leaving you with nothing
but the indent
of the string
which bound you to it so tightly,
watching what you love
fade into
Midnight.