The full moon reminds me of howling through your sheets. It's draped over me like the train of some ornate, luxurious dress - and indeed I did luxuriate in the moonlight of you: Intermittent intensity bearing a metallic cobalt hue. I liked our brevity; the pocketedness of our meetings. Little capsules of time that had space to breathe between them, whilst all-encompassing in and of themselves.
The moon bled a soft burgundy warning over your face. Dampening the blue. A last waning, I somehow knew. You were beautiful enough for me to be content with your brief appearance.
There's a little part of you still residing in me. I'm sure. It smells like summer at the fading end of summer. It looks like persistent winter tan lines ridiculous enough to be churned into "cute". It loiters in the park, marvelling at the chlorella earth and azure sky. It has the face of Anakiwa in a record-cold August. It grabs onto youth with innocuously venomous fingertips and taps itself against the floorboards of basement buildings. It anticipates a future of rushing lungs and twisted heartbeats; that December rain-earth smell and nights with the covers kicked off.
I wish my whole life could be made of these moments. I'd be satisfied without continuity. I'd have the constant of change to hold me down, to ground me into the ground, to anchor the weight of stability into me.
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