It is late, and there is
a stampede in my stomach
and sleep on my mind
when I first think of love.

Fingertips trembling as
they flirt with novel keys
only to name the
backspace summer lover.

I do not fear love like a
cold needle pressed against
warm skin, rather the
trickle of red to follow.

And it will always follow,
As pale moon follows
the bright sun,
Which follows you.

I guess that is why
I love the moon
and hate the sun,
which is to say, nothing.