Moulted skin of a dying sun
that is salvaged and spun
into hoarfrost and raiment
by naked moons.
The same beauty that enchants, deceives,
for moonshine is unreal. A barren spectre
of the light of day, now
stripped of warmth.
Yet, the moon I will not deny
with all its hollowness, emptiness
and factitious inspirations of poetic affection,
for its moonshine is you...
You, I cannot deny, for I
still drink in the scent of hair,
smell nascent sweat on bathed skin,
caress undulating spine from nape to hollow
taste moisture of tongue.
And you swell, and throb,
and ebb, and retreat,
phantom lover. With form,
but without face or name.
You entice me with light but
bring me no warmth...
Moonshine!