Cold, stale wind on the balcony.

A creamy moon stamped in the sky,

Framed between bars

From the floor.

Brown curls trying to fly away with the wind,

Disappointment at their anchoring.

Warm, brown eyes eclipsed by a milky moon,

The edges sparkling with stars.

Broad shoulders relaxed into the silence,

Wind whispering its secrets into his ear,

Tan skin, warm, pressed into cold tile.

bumps of cold peppering arms,

Wind slithering its way through fine hair.

A flutter of curtains,

Dead butterfly wings hung from the ceiling.

A wall of clear separation pushed aside.

He doesn’t turn his head.

Next a foot,

Bare,

Painted toenails and lotion the only protection from the wind.

Then a body,

Emerging from behind the flitting curtain,

An exhale.

An inhale.

Now he’s not alone.

Equal height,

Same view,

An ear listening carefully to a shoulder,

Searching for a heartbeat

That quickens

With each

Inhale.

Exhale.

Of breath curling into the night,

Smoke from her fire.

A lamppost glows below,

The street’s candle,

Dingy yellow light

Enclosed in dirty, fogged glass.

And above,

Two birds,

Oblivious

To nothing but the

Cold,

the

Silence,

And the 

Moon.