Under the silver moon,Â
the night softens into a quiet red-wine haze.
By day, she keeps her feelings neatly hidden
 — calm, alert, and a little hard to read,Â
like a cat with its claws tucked away.
But when moonlight fallsÂ
and the scent of wine begins to drift,Â
she finally lets go of the shape she wore all day.
Her guarded thoughts curl gently back to her side,
 and the secrets she kept through the daylight
 begin to move with the night.
She is not a sweet dream waiting to be kept.
She is a fleeting secret,Â
allowing you close only for a moment.
Under the silver moon, softness is not surrender.
It is the way she belongs to herself again.