Weaves the Moon

“he’s crazy” … you said to your bestie, (but in a VERY good way), loud enough for me to hear - both your girlish giggles fading with distance … I ran … fast as young legs could carry, spattering the wet sand - phosphorescent particles arcing over the shiny beach like fireflies … each footfall, a fading circle of afterglow, like blue embers … dying … hard, I ran … straight at the moon, as if she were the temptress that my lips ached for - as if HER lustrous, pale surface was the tender dermis that beset my every thought, not the fair flesh that moved beneath your white cotton blouse, or the honeyed treat that danced like bubblegum behind your smile, toying with my senses… ON, I ran … and on - until my breath was gone, and the eve had swallowed me … I sat down on the still-warm sand to watch the moon change … from blood … to butter … in the distance I could hear your giggles, but ONLY yours, (you had left her behind, as I had prayed you would), I smiled, flushing … the slapping of your dainty feet on the damp beach growing louder, and soon I could see the blue sparks arcing, and the glowing footprints you left behind as you ran … I looked up at the moon, then back at you as you reached me and stopped … you sat down, dug your fuchsia-painted toes into the sand, leaned your warmth against me, and whispered, (lips moving feathery against mine) - “you’re crazy” … I closed my eyes, then, and thought … crazy, indeed. Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, October 28, 2022