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Laying on the moon
I want to eat crème brulee.
At fifteen my breath shallow, project in mind, I hear my steps and feel for the familiarity of the ringbox.
At half, lights inside houses not yet unwanted, merely I am curious about their lives.
At forty five flower language I start to speak their tongue. Drinking nectar? Enjoy.
After a while my hair my beautiful silky hair reminds me of my skin, cool to touch at last.
When it brushes against neck, face, I want to bury my hands in the silk.
Breathe deeply, drink the flowers
lay on the moon and eat crème brulee.