Songs of The Moon

Sometimes, my dear, you’re got to give a man his space

I tell the kitten in my arms as she struggles to get past my fingers

It’s like trying to hold movement when all you’ve got is chopsticks

I tell you, it’s not that easy.

I hold my cats tightly, the same way the moon that we saw only three nights past

It holds onto light, like it’s the last time he’ll see the sun

Shining off his face like that.

From the moment I felt your nose against mine

I’d already promised you the best part of me, covered in scratches

With hands torn and bloody

But I learnt that love doesn’t always come wrapped nicely

In boxes with ribbons, but sometimes its just in the way that even though she knows it annoys him, Lady just won’t leave Seb alone.

My dear, I have loved you since the moon set eyes on the wolf

And called forth her voice to his eye

Since the first time we danced sideways across the room

Digging scratches into the floor and

Spilling tables and chairs into the sea of carpet and skin that we took off like shoes in the hallway

Letting it sink into the ground as we lay in the light wearing nothing but our scars and the sun.

I embalmed you in my life, like the gifts we give to the ocean, the stones and sticks we skim across palms to land in her stomach,

I wrapped you like an astronaut, padding you to hide you from my

Fingers, my heart, my tail, my claws: the stones and sticks that could really hurt.

I was willing to give you the scratches across my skin, but was scared to give you some of your own, too blind to see past my own torn fingers to yours

So I hid under the sheets until the sun had stopped coming in through the window

And told myself that ‘sometimes, you’ve just got to give a man his space’.

And when the moon comes around one more millionth time

With silver bells around my neck I’ll come to you like Lady does,

Leaping and crawling and not really caring how many scratches we both get,

As long as I get to hold you

Like the part of the ocean that holds onto the moons light like this is the last time she’ll ever see it like that

And I’ll learn one more time that love doesn’t always come wrapped nicely with bows

But with torn fingers and scratches.