so she—the garish sun—(the blistering medicine, the chariot hanging off of Helios' wheels) sprouts eastward: bright streaks of light upon soft clouds a dulcet smile in the silhouette of a girl with two strands of honey blonde framing her face. you couldn't compare her to any other girl the same way you can't compare the sunset to a flashlight.
who will be her dusk? who will be the grey eyed mourn framing the riptide tears pouring down her face? the twinkle of astronomical fragments burning in her eyes? she needs a dark (k)night, nimble fingers tracing constellations and translucent dreams in satin indigo she craves the eclipsed attention she daydreams of ardent midnight loving and yet
i am not the moon
