Pitch perfect night,
clouds of fog rising up like steam;
that's when
your eyes shoot open
and you pick the pen up;

now ruffle the pages tenderly
like you'd ruffle a beloved's head.

There are long forgotten ink scratches
all over your clothes
because lest the idea slips out,
you are hurrying—
like every night.
You are whispering your late night
secret to the
margins of a half-faded page:

and that is the moment
when you're the most beautiful.
Because in that moment
you are.