The Lady in the Moon

Drown me in your breath. I want to rest in your depths, rising and falling with the move of your heart. I want to hold the part of you reserved for the moon. For I am the moon, and I am the stars. I am the soft fallen snow on the mountains, the whisper of silence through the forests, resting on the branches of the fir and the pine and I desire you. The swell of your chest as you lay in slumber, the flicker of your eyelids, the inside of your cheek, the kisses on elbows, fingertips, knees, toes. The smell of coffee on your skin, the lavender and wood in your hair. The taste of the ocean, swelling inside you as big as the earth, as your capacity to feel.


For you are the ocean and you are the seas, you are the unknown and the unfamiliar, the intimate and the discovered. The salt on your shoreline calls to me, and as the swell of your lungs beckon, I await. Await the calling of your depths that I can hide beneath, the currents that will lead me back home. Home, to every place we have ever been, to the sweltering heat of the apache sand, the green expanses of a wide set country, the misty secrets in the mountains of the Orient. For the places where our souls find rest, they inhabit our consciousness, the salt and light and taste and sound imbibe, and we become as like.


Become as one. You know the feel of the raging storms on the Sahara as you feel excitement; the flooding seasons, they carry your tears. The waves sound your testament in tongues ever changing, as drawn ever onward as they seek after their own, after the moon. And we hear the song of the moon, strung aloft and alone, her banishment from the oceans her choice of lament, where destined to remain she cannot look away, drawn with the same enchantment that pulls galaxies into dance. So she remains, a symbol of ache, besotted with the poetry of pain, the prose of seperation which, when read in the night sky causes ones heart to weep, until the dawn draws close in soothing embrace and silences the longing she holds in her circle.

Oh, she is I. I, who carries the luminosity of the sun, dimmed in my palms. It lingers on my cheeks and in my eyes, where lovers may glance and admire from their comfort, their comfort as mine, where you are. I am the lady in the moon, the distant lover, the homesick star. I, who ever searching, yearns for the touch of one long departed. In my reflection you see the whispers of a time of past joy, the intonation of a voice greatly missed, tinted in shades of longing. I live only in the night, where the voices of the darkness sing serenades over your distant form. My stomach will hold you, as long as truth reckons, so when the rising of the sun shines too brightly on you, I may still see you, dwelling within me.


Can you feel the space we once inhabited, like I do? Hear the thunder my heartbeat creates, calling to your ancient storms, echoing your melody. It resounds in your bones, a cry of intimacy once known, once lost, now further gone than legend, more misplaced than myth. I want to crawl under your skin, feel your pulse as my coverlet, to know the creases of your fingers, the skin along your back. But I cannot, for more than worlds seperate us. The atmosphere bemoans our loss, though natural it may be. For even the air despises to see such seperation, the stars sing symphonies of lament, for eyes such as theirs were never meant to know such sorrow.


Your eyes are the depths, sweeping your path across the globe, swelling with your lungs as you reach for the sky, and though expanses may stand between us, my light will reflect in your shadow. But that is all, we may never touch. Never may we feel the warmth of anothers palms against ours, never will the scent of another be so familiar, for this is our destiny. For I am the moon, and you, the ocean, hold the stars.