Evening's Vulnerability

The night is prettiest when it’s naked. 
When the sky drops down its yellow robe,
Exposing its bare back,
And sunlit creases fold and drape on the horizon.

Crevices and curvatures whisper seductively
As we sit, bodies touching, on your rooftop.
Your hand lays shyly on the zipper of my dress
And our worn shoes tap together in a rhythm-less honesty.
It is just us. The neighborhood streets are vacant.

We watched as each article was stripped from the frame.
The process took all day. It was slow and wanting.
The people were the first to leave,
Then, their echoing shadow sounds,
Which stole away with pieces of our attention
In the moments leading up to sunset.

Your parents took off to the beach
And children came inside for supper
Then snuggled up in pocket homes -
Kept safe to be pulled out for later.
For now, though, let them eat and sleep in silence.
Night is prettiest when it’s naked.

Our own meal was the next to go:
Devoured spoonfuls revealing little patches
Of our lilac plates one by one,
Like skin exposed by fingered buttons of a cardigan,
So that we were turned full and round
And the grumbling of stomachs
Was left on the kitchen floor.

Our anxieties were the last.
The pressing feeling of necessity,
Urgent responsibility pushing in on a twisted chest,
You unclasped and let it fall away from evening.
We are freeform now, and a tight exterior of worry has been shed.

The air and our limbs are softened to jelly
Awkwardly, our bodies seem to stutter,
stumble over peacefulness as we sit,
And we have never been as comfortable as this.

Together, watching our world undress -
Our bodies still clothed while the night lays down
Like a muse for a painting -
We bask in the simplistic scene.

Soon, we will go inside.
The night is prettiest when it’s naked.
And so, I think, are we.