#the man who went out in the night

We never talk about the man who went out in the night,

You start the discussion – the one discussion that I

never think you would start.

I guess the word ‘never’ is a fickle word –

a frivolous player who enjoys deceiving young girls’ hearts –

but never mind.

Do you want to talk about him now? I say,

knowing that you have probably forgotten the topic you started,

for in your mind, there is no red light, and you can’t stop the thinking

from over-speeding – or even under-speeding, and to my surprise, you say:

I want him to be safe.

Of course, you would want him to be safe.

You don’t understand, you look at me with the anger

of a person who is never heard and has only been spoken to.

You don’t understand, you repeat, he is fighting a war he could not win.


And in that war, he will slowly forget things:

Things he had done to me and to others,

or even things others had done to him,

and as his spoken words slur, I can’t help but think

that it’s funny how we are never on the right side of a war.

Say, my darling, what will become of the man who went out in the night?

You look out the window and ask.

Your dark, glistening irises always make me think that you are crying, but no –

you often tell me your eyes are where the desert is: despite the heat from the sun,

they will always become cold and distant when the night comes.

I don’t know, my darling, I whisper on the fine China silk made of your black hair,

I don’t know, but don’t leave me hanging here

when the night comes.

You smile and with the gentleness of a broken-wing angel, say:

It’s alright.

You meant to say, It’s alright, my darling,

I won’t leave. And I will wait for the man to return –

because after all, the night never stays for too long,

and desert is always awfully hot when the day comes.

And with those eyes that have haunted me ever since I was still

an onlooker,

you let me know that all is forgiven.



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