Written by Emma Flynn
Art by Arawark Chen
the moon- amidst the shadow-cast rubble and glinting sweat of your brow; she sits and watches.
i taste you on my tongue and it is familiar, like blueberry tea in clinking wet china or your smile full of flowers or my throat enclosed in honey.
there is something in the spray of the sea that takes me back to you; the crease of a page of your favorite book, the smell of your cologne in the afterglow (i would drown in it to reach you).
the moon; she ebbs and flows, casting us in the afterglow of midnight.
i ask you are we real? and you laugh and tell me no. i smile as my hands enfold into yours, bare skin against the dewy grass. our legs are entangled. i can only hold you, yet i feel closer still.
rain smells sweet on the breeze- electricity or tenderness, love or fear. it’s all the same, like a memory long forgotten, like a moment stolen. i am swept under by a current and dipped beneath the waves. the water is like your kiss (sanguine) flushed with the thrill of a tight grasp. i melt into it.
the moon; she is singing a lilting melody (or languished lament)
if i die here, i will die beneath the rush of a bloated and sated love, two dancers in an empty room.
is she lonely? i am afraid, spinning barefoot on marble floors. a dagger glints in your eyes. no. she is alive.
we are asleep, entangled in lucid dreams. how long have i been dreaming? you are smiling, you remind me of everything i am and will be.
the moon; she is spinning.
we are lovers dancing in the truth of what we will never be.
were we ever real? i ask her, gasping.
no, she laughs like a friend, never.