ev’ry hour is midnight

feathered … moony beams daub your lips - the irregularities shaping little cornflower thorns but oh, how supple the pliant press of those luscious fruits (savored like honey) … I touch them delicately with the back of my finger then move lower to your daintily-dimpled chin, and down … I follow the blue beams with my fingertips dancing across your surfaces as little bumps form and your flesh jumps here-and-there telling me I’ve found the sweetest spots, though I’m winding my way to an even dearer dermis and warmer intent … what is the enchantment of these moments - this magic of moonlight that makes me want you so? there is a mad mystery to why such time stops and waits for us, and were it not for the responsibilities of morning, we would hold this moment forever - painted in dreamy shafts of blue trading touches like truths swimming the rill of each other’s soul and haunting a wonder-world - whimsical, immortal and ours … alone. Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden