He stroked her hair,
as she slept upon his lap.
Tired was she, the lady,
An affair they had had.
He couldn’t get her fragrance off his mind,
he didn’t want to.
She lay there, sleeping, dreamy-eyed, thinking of another galaxy,
as he dreamt of her.
The night was pretty.
It was young when they set out
to vodkafy themselves.
Popcorn and each other for company, they drank.
They stared at walls,
they hated the music,
they ignored each other.
They left the place
to scout the city at night.
Resplendent in its fluorescence,
the city shimmered on.
They sang by the waterside,
high notes screeching, lower ones whispered.
The water splashed on to them,
the moon shone on their faces.
They wanted to listen to some jazz.
They kissed. For the first time.
Her home was closer.
Jazz was played.
Love was made.
He stroked her hair.
Morning would arrive soon.
The vodka would wear off,
the fluorescence would fade.
They had made love to the night,
the night was pretty. It was young.
