moon pomade

-

Softly spoken in open waters,

a lonesome songbird through tunnel vision

—

fixated, gentle, trying not to disturb.

Hints of shine in moments of doubt,

a polished surface over unraveling.

Serenaded out of body, mind, and fury,

tamed into something pleasing.

Icy enough to hold still,

strong, but only for a vacancy that leads

nowhere.

Tempted in fruit flies, circling dead weight

left behind

—

the scent of something once wanted.

Possessive to mirrors, blackened with old

light,

portraits stolen from versions of me I no

longer resemble.

Love, heavenly — until the bullet never

arrives,

just the slow sickness that stays.

Never asked to stay in one place during

moon hours,

but I held my shape anyway.

Even then, I remained perfect.

—

Didn’t I do it for you?

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