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.

bring me June daisies and July heatwaves. let cold water be something for skin to sizzle under instead of shiver at. send sun to summer my skin, moon to coat my throat in howls—guttural, thick, and hungry for blood. send fireflies to catch in blue-tinted mason jars —let’s pretend they’re stars scooped from the heavens. let’s pretend this barren soil, this decayed wasteland is capable of reaping something ripe and sweet, sticky on the fingers. let’s make a picnic of these canned beans and jarred peaches. let’s make a seaside of this whimpering creek. let’s make use of this dying sun while we still can. let’s meet, flesh to flesh, ankle to ankle, honey tongue to strawberry lips. let’s make a timeless August of it.

he said. but i am about as attainable as horizon—no, as ocean rushing toward you only to slink away. i know this, somehow, is worse.

you want to drink me in, but you gag and choke—my brine not made for your throat. i don’t think anyone could swallow me, feel me wash over

their skin and settle. if i was going to call any shore home, it would have been yours. but somehow your whale lungs were still not quite large enough to withstand me. and stuff