and yet, what are we but mere mortals
somehow caught in the world's anger?
what am i but just another girl
weaving these words
in the corners of a ceiling
where the moon doesn't shine —
hidden by dust and out of reach
and you are a victim,
walking straight to spider silk;
somewhere in the sky,
artemis is perched on the moon —
watching, warning.

and for all we know,
she knows, that apollo, too
had written poems for all his lovers;
i will borrow these words,
fumbling to write all the things
i cannot say.
but in the end, how can i write
about your love and its softness
when all i've known are wolves and shredded baskets,
when my legs are made for chasing the fog,
when my hands are made for ripping red cloths
and poorly folding them into roses?
alas, darling,
these are my pressed tulips and chaste kisses
delicately folded into words.
this is my testament;
these are my whispers in their softest.
these are my fingers in their gentlest.
this is my love for you.

this.