night is me, she says.
she is confidence in shadows, navel full of moonlight,
lips parted and dreaming at the windowsill.
in darkness she is an outline to be envied, a handful of diamonds
shaking off the dust,
a glimmer with no sun.
where there is nothing to be seen
she sees a vision of herself
braided into strands of silk like
a delicate world wonder, a towering element
of temporary strength.
night is a pastime she keeps
in the linen closet.
confidence is a distant friend
that glows when no one is watching.