She said the moon has risen
on avenues of afflicted,
where her sheepish speech
had coaxed me to her claims.

That night is lover's comfort,
the modern hymn of mother,
the mistress of humble,
of fevered saints.

Strong, but with veil of pallor,
she taps her foot to the hours,
while we lapped at our wounds
in her room and hid away.

And in our conversations,
hot breaths and silent exchanges,
We had come to perfection,
as ghosts we had became.

So I slipped into her visions
but her tongue held only admission
that no eye could reveal her,
or truth could set her straight.

And we would waste the hours
amidst bed chambers.
No song of mine could tame her.
We were young.

In all that she had to offer,
no wisdom could have calmed her.
She climbed in the window,
and ghosts we became.