Night

The weekend night burns,
In memory of an old waiting.
The ringing onomatopoeia of a hammering heart,
A stirring song of a knock from the past.

The potent intoxication of unbidden expression.
Proximate, unlimited, in its intimate immediacy.
Your soft smile reserved for the wordless moments,
Forging a parallel story of sweet sundries.

Delightful in their melange of little nothings,
A pastiche that weaves together a memoir worth everything.
Somehow all this tastes of meaningful contentment.
A gratifying taste my palette has never met so far.

Tonight I could write the finest poem,
Or achieve the highest merit of excellence.
And yet I would trade it all,
For a quiet walk with you, in all its prosaic mundanity.

And so this cold night burns on,
Weighed down by one muted breath after another. 
The slow dance of the lamp plays on,
As thoughts of you wash over my heart.