Feel it, Lover. The moon moves.
Not much like it was before—
whispers. Creep. Nightmares.
Why words now? Now is not the place.
My timid tongue moves through flesh.
Sorry. Your tides,
pulling me, suppressed flesh into flesh.
I’m terrified of death, of digging into your grave.
Pull— Push— Don’t move.
Or, yes, tremble. That feels appropriate.
My tongue awful amid this night.
Does that make it for you?
It wouldn’t. I’m ripped under riptide covers.
Sorry lover. Covers come. My tongue.
I’m sorry, Lover.
You’re all wet. Drowning
seems possible tonight. Please, don’t die
Let me be the one to—
But no, of course, I don’t,
not through this fleshly night.
The moon moves. —Feel.
