📚Seven moons📖
There are nights that are made of my arms
and a silence common to violets
and there are seven moons that are seven strokes
seven nights that were never made
There are nights that we take to the waist
like a belt of big butterflies.
And a bloody streak in our dark flesh
from a sword to a comet's sheath.
There are nights that leave us behind
tangled up in our disenchantment
and white swans that are only the same
to the furthest wave of your song.
There are nights that take us where
the ghost of us is closer:
and it is always our voice that answers us
and only our name was right.
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