“The night is young!” they say, but we know better:
The night is old, and so are we.
We hear the call of a cup of tea.
Outside, the party becomes a dull mutter.

The night is cold; your arm snakes my waist, now a little fatter
Than when we met, but no less me.
“The night is young!” we titter.
The poets in us know: the night was born old, and always will be.

We kiss on the doorstep, a brief flutter
Of lips and lashes, familiar and free.
My blood stirs as you turn the key.
My body remembers jungles, caves, when the world was hot and wetter.

The night is young, they say, but we know better:
The night is old, and so are we.