four thirty AM three doors down a crow finds its voice Trying out a lune this week. Posted on non-fic because, well, it's true.
You once told me, the moon is made of salt, that all the tears that ever were are kept hidden there, disguised as dust. You spoke matter-of-factly, your pale face made sanguine by the dying sun. With deft fingers you stole dew from the grass, bade me drink from your palm. Above us, fronds of … Continue reading The truth of honey and salt
All the stars that crowd the ether— Unremarkable, compliant— Travel routes which are reliant On the plan prescribed by nature. Men’s desires have deceived her As she dwindles, meek and pliant, Though I bid her stay defiant. Once the pivot passed beneath her Never could she make a detour.
The things I forget are simple. Not your face, Or the color of your eyes (blue, with hints Of grey and gold, like the sea at dawn.) I forget the sound of birds marking the dawn, the taste of salt, the touch of sun on my face. I forget the shape of us. You left … Continue reading Castaway
Dawn is a grey cat. Watch: even the frost-limned leaves Barely make a stir.