It's all about her,-I had never wished to know the moon,or the burning gaze of her lover.I am merely a forest of silences,old dogwoods & untamed hair.-But, I made a promiseto a bone collector once.He could have my spine,my kneecaps, &one flowered rib,wrapped & bowed-uplike a present-if he could fall in lovewith things that slip through his fingers:Me,the sea,shooting stars.-“It would be a sin to love you,my dear sweet wolf;you will always cry for the moon.”
Sta.sh
