If you could fly to the moon, I might follow.  Sailing through the clear darkness for an eternity, I’d reach the moon’s silvery craters and softly land. As I touched down, the powdery dust would eddy up from beneath my tensely arched feet in cloudy plumes --small billows of slow-motion, churning grey.  And in wild tangling curls, my hair would float above me, swirling in the empty blackness, full of stars glittering behind the strands.  
The moon is a cold bright landscape of black and white.  I would run through its pale light, floating slowly over the dusty craters in a clear, quivering, underwater-silence.  And when I reached that line, where smooth dusty darkness begins, and the silver light ends, and the shadow-line drifts from month to month, then I would stop.  I would stand on the dust -bare feet apart- drop back my head, bare my throat to the line that divides me down in half -light and dark, dark and light- daring you, earth and stars reflecting in my eyes.  If you reached, stepped towards me, I would watch you --an image, and a despair, and I’d slip into the moon-night.  You’d be alone, blaming me for my hatred.  Because when it becomes her habit, a girl flinches away, before wondering if, perhaps, that time it wasn’t necessary.