She is my luna, the dying night —
writhing her silver beads around my red wrists.
I heard her heart sing, and seldom scream
when shadows burdened my lips clean, softly.

I wait for her at twilight with my
body undone, unfolded, transient; so her
midnight fondles turn my head towards the sun.
I awake with the weight of her mouth kissing
me, cautiously; and take her taste with
when I am hollow.

She avoids me in the day and smothers me
before dawn breaks, and I let her swoon on
the gapes of my curves ‘til there’s
no breath left in the day.

She is my luna, and I won’t give her pain away.