In the light, you and I, we sort of grudgingly acknowledged each other.
Not that we dislike each other, no, we're actually becoming quite close.
Something keeps us apart, in the light. We talk about everything else
except ourselves, except each other.
The night comes, and, under its cover, we feel free. We tell each other
secrets; we tell each other lies.
Under the half-moon and the cold, glittering sky you kiss me
for the first time. (You are normally so timid.)
Isn't that supposed to be what I do?
Slowly you start to reveal yourself to me. I see under your quiet shell and
I begin to understand why he covets you so. Somewhere,
deep inside me, there is a flickering of reservation:
she's too young.
Do you really want what I have to offer?
Then I understand that I really don't have a choice, now,
here in the darkness, where we whisper little pieces of ourselves to each
other. My heart races - fear, excitement, a happiness almost completely
absent from my life. I fear what I could do to you, and yet the prospect
excites me; and you, little creature,
bring happiness to an unhappy boy.
We were supposed to be commiserating together about love lost.
Can something like this last?
We whisper the things we are afraid to say, in the dark.
That I can only vaguely make out your face in these shadows gives me
the strength to act
on my desire for you. Maybe, in the morning light,
I will eat your pain, I will devour you whole, if need be.
I've wanted you since I first lay eyes on you.
And you seem OK with it.