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Moving in and out of shadows, his moon love has scarred me. As he grows whole again, I think I can feel him forgetting me, but I’m left with all the marks. I am cracking in this caustic air whereas he continues to go on, changing his mind nightly, owning each new confusing shape whilst I unbloom. I want to claw his flesh and scratch that serpent visage but he is unscarrable. I loved him yesterday and I love him more today, I’ll be dead by tomorrow, drowned in his chalk-sea. He gorges on innocence, it’s his only hunger. He doesn’t bleed nor feel pain nor see mine. His crescent smile sickens me but I want to bathe in his stains. I sense him every night, watching him with my silent screech-owl’s eye and tasting his infection on my lips like arsenic. But I am not alone. His presence is marked by many; we all watch him swell with our septic eyes. He enlarges like a frosted bud unpeeling. His brassy light reflects on to me and I wonder whether I gleamed to him, lingering like bruised flesh; he engorges; I blister; and his shadow engulfs me. The cold surface grows and it looks like war, full of crippled winter-stripped trees and ice-rock - the texture of a twitching eyeball- unlike my overgrown, strangling insides. He’s the coldest thing I’ve known. Once full, he is the colour of a jackal’s tooth. Glaring down, his nakedness, all silver and bare, yolkless like a purposeless egg, brings me to my knees and forces my skeletal face into its final bone blush.