Apotheosis

My Darling Moon,

I like to think I might still pulse amid

your channels—

that in the afterglow of Theia,

a molecule of me—a speck of salt,

a mote of foam—

may linger in the crescent nooks and cradles of

your groves.

Could this be the reason why

you slip through Nyx’s curtains—

to feign

and tease

your ebbing lips meet mine?

Tell me it is, and yet—

tell me it isn’t so.

Come closer, love—

I plead of you.

*

I know you are forever glass

and mirror-heart fervent for the sun—

your apotheosis—

but I am wild, swelling, roaring among

a lair of urchin bed and coral nest for you,

my Moon, and in your call and beckon I

am ever-rising:

push, pull, push, pull, push, pull...

*

I am your tethered, breathless servant—

the way I have been since

the vein of time was threaded through the Erebus,

and spun.

rise, fall, rise, fall, rise, fall...

*

You are my looming beacon—

my pharos in

the Erosynx of pine, and I

have rocked,

and quaked,

and arched into

a surging body—coaxed and captured by

our unborn kiss: evanescent and

eclipsed by you—

O Moon,

I am your brackish, swoonful supplicant:

a manic, upswept tide—

(and I fear I)

cannot help but bay and beg for every

phase,

and peak,

and beam of you, my phantom love.

pulse, sigh, pulse, sigh, pulse, sigh...

*

Sleep,

with you,

is non-existent:

it is rolling, unmoored, ephemeral—

magnetic through the dew-entangled whisper of

the dark; you dress my curves

and ripples with

a fish-net nightgown made

of lunar lace

and diamonds—

then strip it all away by break

of morning.

yearn, bend, yearn, bend, yearn, bend...

*

I want to do,

for you,

the same—

I want to drape you in

my brine,

and sea angel,

and comb jelly—

if only you

would dip below the veil of brume

and gull-flock to

embrace me—I

would have you doused

and swathed

in velvet crab and silken spume.

roll, hush, roll, hush, roll, hush...

I am ever-reaching for your touch,

but never high enough.

O Moon,

I bay and rise through time, grasping to

the hope that thou shalt have me, (but)

my crests

and castles are

mere aetherglints of you—

wake, dream, wake, dream, wake, dream...

I wait with writhing waves for you, while you

are busy basking in the afterlust

of sun—

I suppose we both are ever-aching, Moon—

chasing our elusive,

rise-and-setting love:

our apotheosis.