It is the witching hour
Made mysterious
By the ghostly light
Of a quarter moon.
The late night revelers,
Garbed in all manner
Of character
And alter ego,
Circulate
Amongst themselves,
Playfully inquiring
Who hides behind
The many masks.
I stand to the side
Feeling a bit bereft
By all the hijinks.
I am not sure
Why I find the party
So depressing,
Perhaps it is because
I am overly aware
Of my single status.
I am not so casual
In affairs of the heart
As what my friends
Seem to be,
So I look on,
My eyes moving slowly
Over the room
Until, with a shock,
They collide with
An intent green gaze
Watching me
From behind
A swathe of black velvet.
His expression,
So direct,
So serious,
Slowly eases
Into a wolfish smile
And I feel a blush
Warm my cheeks.
I look away,
Then I look back,
And find him
Making his way
Through the crush of bodies,
His focus entirely on me,
And I give in to my panic
And escape...