We often meet when night has fallen.
Not at dusk, when there still is a gleam of orange lighting up the shadowed patches of streets.
No, it is only at night that we seek comfort in each other’s silhouettes.
We don’t like the sun. We don’t like the light.
For our secrets are safe with the bedside night lamp. She keeps them muted under her spotlight shade.
Between half-hearted sips of his favourite wine and confident drags of a freshly rolled joint, we lose track of time.
Yet, we return.
Another night. To another fallen night.