The moon self-eclipses,
hiding her battered old face
in stygian lunacy.
Below,
we bounce light in different directions
like prisms
hanging in the window of a curiosity shop.

In strobing shadows, we grin
lasciviously-
dangling, drooling shrunken heads
on red strings of fate.

It hardly matters.
From a distance our oddities are almost...
endearing.

You are welcome in my bubble,
room for two.