
If the night were a woman, I think I would kiss her. Smooth the drapes of her hair and wrap them around us as makeshift curtains. I would end all acts, drop all pretenses, and fess up to her about the comfort she always brings me. Even in absence. Especially in long, waking, tirelessly exhausted absences, I miss her. I would tell her I'm sorry for all the times she just barely missed the precious sunrises with me. How many times I wish I had laid my head back and stargazed with her. If the night were a woman, I would confess my deepest regrets for sleeping through all our appointments, rendezvous, and illicit hookups. Missing them by many a day's span. I would let her enormous fingerprints tease over my spine and tickle down the small of my back as she abducts me onto her lap. Her meadowlike fingerprints would spread onwards forever, and I would only bask at her comforting black vastness. I would smother my tears with the surface of her legs, and cradle my face in soft pities and half-suppressed chuckles. I would laugh at the absurdity, that the woman who was the end and start of my days for as long as I have had them had gone thankless for so long. If the night were a woman, I think, I would have to do more than kiss her. But it would be a nice start to showing what she means to me.


