You’re my hurricane in stockings, you say.
Through the window presses the sound 
of a sentimental strain, situating our embrace 

somewhere outside in the dark-drenched 
beauty of the city. You’re my moony 
hoodlum, you say, never mind the ones

who would tell us not to risk it all 
with our escapade. It starts to rain, the rain 
grows heavy. Through the downpour 

we can see pale faces, legs, particles 
of street light. Our dream’s already
come halfway true, you want me 

to believe just this once. Shall I 
humour you? Soon we’ll be tramping 
wet pavements. It’s true you have 

your moments of realism, despair even,
yet your heartbeat insists, penetrates
my silence, with its illusion of no pain.