Earth turns its quiet revolution— sky spilled sequins on ink; pale moon a scythe carving paths of silver through forests bathed in wolf’s breath while we fight to keep warm under her last wink.

I used to fear the night, its cast of shadows, its ghost moans, invisible pupils, inconspicuous creaks. Now I fear sunrise—dawn white washing you from my eyes, daylight’s din damping you with violet noise.

Your taste— like popping embers, candy-coated supernovas —lingers on my tongue like a star burning through the ages, and I don’t want to rinse you from my mouth by licking the sun.

I never knew till I went nocturnal what it means to be star-crossed, that some loves are made for the dark.