Every night she puts on make-up. When the mood is right it's bright and it reflects the light just so - just so he sees the glow.

Every night she is in flight; she crosses seas and hills and streams and skies. The sight of his face is just ahead - just ahead - and she must fight the urge to bite the foreign flesh; crush the sweet and fresh enjoyment of her birthright and return, despite.

Every night she puts on clothes. When the mood is right those are tight and they delight just so - just so he sees the show.

Every night she is outside herself; accustomed to the ritual invite she receives by mail. A tale. A gale. Inhale, impale, implode, unveil, exhibit, exhale... she is outside and yet the right - it sure feels right - the right amount of love keeps him in sight.

Every night she puts on love. When the mood is right it's an invite and it projects her plight just so - just so he's in the know.  

What say you, sleeping and dreaming of perchance... perhaps... maybe... what say you sleeping unaware she steals the shadows of his face and makes of them a space, a time, a dance with grace, finesse and just - just the right amount of lust to keep her place... in tact.

What know you, living and pretending it is life... perchance... maybe... what know you living unaware she clicks her heels and feels the might of his embrace and makes of it a base, a rhyme, a trance with lace, noblesse and just - just the right amount of trust to keep the chase... in fact.

Every night, every night, every night... they each enact, extract, impart, retract. Every night... a pact. Love finds a way to stay exact; exact as she and he unload the day's cracks and ransackings.