Moon Seeds

I cannot understand how one man can be made entirely of moon seeds. His hands are in my hair, on the back of my neck. My skin rises to meet him; cannot be close enough to him. This is my wish to absorb. My blood, which many have found too wild, sings as though each kiss is a swan song — as though I only have one chance to get it right. My lips tremble with the strain. I wanted to give him this, but I wasn’t sure how. I’m better with touch — press my ear against his chest. His heart is a thing there are no words for; no metaphors, no analogies. I practice writing so I don’t lose my tongue when he looks at me. So I remember fragments of famous poems just enough to say: I love you. I meant it prettier; I meant it grander — but I love you.


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