by Ella Standage

tonight the streets are swamped in blue.
it settles on our skin, delicate, and feather light—
(i don’t believe in a higher power but god, this is divine)
the only noise audible is the soft intake and exhalation of air.
our language is one of motion:
you don’t say anything but i can hear
(the gradient of your voice sloping downwards)
the swaying undertones, the simple words unsaid.
somehow, this silence is lyrical,
surrounding from all sides our harmony while
(here; a pulsing rhythm beneath your skin)
our fingers intertwine in the dark.