A whisper-switch of a moon, a thin-lipped, upended goblet of a moon, a tickled by sun and flooded by night moon, a help me I’m lost in the trees at the horizon moon, a see you on the other side moon
I wish she would drop the illusion, this crazy notion that I am the one following her. Sure, I love the tiny shining garment she is wearing, throwing hints of light onto the parts still hidden, tracing the path of her curve into the curve of light through time. It’s impressive. I admit it.
But clearly, it is she who is following me
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