words like these keep writing themselves

You’ve been lit up, a burning man in my head. You dance slow, you dance with your head hung down, your limbs moving like underwater. And you whisper, you whisper to me in my sleep and you turn me back into gold.

            The moon is a waxing gibbous. I could hold her close, I could kiss her silver lips with mine, I could hold her silk hair in my hands. Her skin blurs the burning man, erases him from the fields. She’s so cool, unlike him, who burns all the time and she, she tastes like lilacs, like jasmine and pearls and she’s got fingers that taper. I can float on her body with eyes half-shut, pupils large and empty. I can float for a long time.

            What does he do at night? What does he do at the blue, what does he do when the cars roll past in damp separateness, not seeing him from their bright bubbles? What does he do when the dreams visit him? What does he do at the miss and yearn? Toothache in his chest, feeling of “why couldn’t we…”

            Snap awake, snap awake, pinch yourself and breath in. Breathe in and call up the moon, ask her over and kiss her mouth, nip her ear and crush her hips to yours. Fill all her spaces and feel that perpetual August night, feel it wash away that burning figure in your mind. Close your eyes and try to forget.