The night belongs to you,
its spectral glows upon your frame
reminds me that there are pieces,
fragments of you with me that
I won't be able to give back.

Such pain once made us dangerous.

It's become something much more
that will bind us together.

And I'm always waiting for your touch 
to take me out of the dark,
that's when you'll tell me everything.

But I don't want the mystery
of such sweetness to be revealed.

Not yet.

And I want to give in with such grace,
surrender my body with the same hunger,
the same featherlight precision you touch with
can suddenly turn so irreversibly possessive,
surrounding me with an invisible fire
that is too pure to be considered mortal.

I wish I knew how to create this,
the flame that cannot be controlled,
can only be understood in moments
too complicit to be jealously stowed away.

But whether I understand it or not,
the body has more stories to tell.

You'll have me writhing and pleading
while I'm beneath and buried inside you,
my own flame stirred to life and roaring,
unable to dim as your hips sway
in this inevitable primal storm.

And the night always belongs to you,
we seem to move much differently then,
knowing that secrets can only unfold slowly
to take us past some mutually hoarded sadness.

Such loneliness once made us dangerous.

It's become something much more now.

And I don't want the mystery
of such sweetness to be revealed.

Not yet.

And I'm always waiting for the night
for your touch to take me out of the dark
to show me where I will truly belong.

That's when I'll tell you everything.