The moon leaves the landscape
bleached bone-pale, the trees
on the horizon, an interlocking skeleton.
You stand, a ghostly figure with
glass bones and paper skin, face
turned up to the moonlight.
A breeze that whispers of the dawn
blows right through you but elicits
shivers on my skin.
The night is quiet by your command—
when I ask if you are real your
eyes contain oceans, and your voice is
birdsong.
Jun 30, 2020
Jun 30, 2020 at 6:28 AM UTC
The moon leaves the landscape
bleached bone-pale, the trees
on the horizon, an interlocking skeleton.
You stand, a ghostly figure with
glass bones and paper skin, face
turned up to the moonlight.
A breeze that whispers of the dawn
blows right through you but elicits
shivers on my skin.
The night is quiet by your command—
when I ask if you are real your
eyes contain oceans, and your voice is
birdsong.
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