The night was a mosaic. Broken pieces of glass not all of them beautiful. Some jagged and sharp, some smooth and polished from crashing waves and gentle waters lapping over and over against the glass. We talked in rhyme and words and hands and hugs. We walked bridges and glued shards of ourselves to it on the way. Left red drops of blood trailing from our chest so we could always find our way back. Back to the mosaic of night and music and depths of souls and shards of glass that cut and smoothed. It was our night. It was our mosaic.