Don't ask me.

MOonlight.
Moonlight shining into whispering air, turning and twisting in thoughts that don't quite interrrupt me.

Play that piano one more time, because
darling it never gets old.
Play it one more time, I need
to think within a laugh again.

Moonlight shining unto scars. Scars on skin and scars on land.
That I need to run my fingers over damaged tissue and feel the change in texture, change in colour, just like stars.

Stars that out of pure curiosity
for our survival
decided to melt into wounds bled shut.
Bled shut with daylight
and sealed with night.

They say kisses leave scars on tongues, printed memories of a shared taste.
That no matter how much saltwater you swallow to forget, that scars still speak through unwashed lips.

I think. I might want to believe.
That maybe. Maybe that means you
are my eternal smudge of dirt,
under my fingernails, hidden
under my chin and running
down my throat, a small cavern of echoes that gives me voice.

I forgive you not darling. That makes you
an unwashable star, an uneraseable trace of universe in my otherwise unlived existence.

Moonlight shining on my lips.
And on your eyes.

Let me sign myself mine

out of you.