She hangs low in the sky, swaddled in

darkness unmoving and ever impatient

to fill them with the purple hues

midnight shies away from. The glow of her fullness

is luminously foreign and it overwhelms to the moment

of shadowing the morning, eagerly awaiting to feel

the stars shift and shape beneath her.

 

Tasting in repetition what thrums against her heartbeat,

what seals itself away each morning in a synchronized hesitancy

befitting the moths that flood her center.

Each pulse quickening against her lips,

a confirmation of the ache behind the kiss

she hasn't dared to yet give; to press wrist against mouth,

palm to thigh,

fingertips to knee.

 

She latches onto the poetry of dead men,

consuming the sordid idea as she sucks inebriated on dead moons.

All while fluttering away from a grasp on reality,

breathing in

each affirmation that never before has she been

more firmly bound to existence.