There was a perfect crescent moon.
And it lay beside a single star
Way up in the night.
They discussed the wind.
The comings and goings of it and how
it rustled your hair
as you twirled in your new dress.
All the lamps were golden and strung out
to my half closed eyes,
each eye lash diffracting your beauty.
Everything was fluid and full and tangible
each seperate taste on my tongue.
And when you’d finished dancing
we went inside to not turn on the lights.