i am a mere earthling, a speck amidst seas swirled with green, glow catching the corner of my periphery because i had never seen the moon look quite the way you do. waves crash closer to sound as crescents fit in cavernous hips; hands slide in craters of your neck, your hair, your spine, to try to keep me in your mind.1 lunar dust – intoxicating, inflammatory, in tandem with desperation to recall every idiosyncrasy. the phases run their course. your face twists to meet another, and i am waning once more. now my slate, satin slip sits quiescent in my dresser, kissed by craters. 

 

1: Black Country, New Road. “Good Will Hunting”