You wore the moonlight like a secret,
a closely guarded confession
to bloom against your skin.
I was too afraid to touch then,
already not knowing how to let go
before this dangerous rubicon
of contact where our hands meet.
Even then, I was already
clinging too jealously.
But you were interested in little things
that I have trouble remembering
that would in time become everything.
I should remember the way
you traced and kissed my scars,
your lips went there first
as if to prove a point.
As if to tell me that those healed lacerations,
some accidental or somewhat intentional,
some the evidence of violence once
flowering over a young body,
those were the lens you saw me best through.
You wanted to taste me at my most unguarded.
And even though it’s not up to you to save me,
I still never once thought you would leave.
And you robed around me like moonlight,
almost too radiant to hold on to,
clinging like a well kept secret.
I was almost to afraid to move,
even the slightest shift would have
acknowledged that I already knew
I’d never be able to let you go.
Even then, I was already
jealously writing our own story.
You made me remember the little things,
the afterglow beyond love made
where everything is a surging memory
of our thunder and close whispers.
You made me remember
what I should hold on to.
But all these pages just seem
to leave my heart in debt,
and it’s too soon that I forget
what you may really need.
I can never forget the way I kissed your scars,
traced them as if they were my very own,
I lingered on every single one of them
as if to prove to prove an unforgettable point.
As if I was able to tell you more with my lips,
exchanging much more in our pauses,
between the endless lines inked,
you could always see much more
in what I didn’t know how to say.
I wanted to know you at your most unguarded moment,
to feel every confession bloom across your skin.
And even though it’s not up to you to save me,
I still never thought you would leave.
But I’ll never be able to forget
how you wore the moonlight.
