Moonchild, I'm still banging my head against this bedframe trying to forget your name.
All I want is one last mouthful, though I know your afterglow will choke me.
Rip me open to find I'm just a black bag of blood. I sold my bones for this silver tongue,
Reminiscing about spinning you stories on brass poles, on bed knobs, on soft scrolls.
Your spark I sought to steal for my own, but my fingers could never grasp your throat.
Meet me at midnight, you pick the place, I need to see that heavenly face,
Even if you cannot be kind, I need that cool white skin on mine.
Bleed me like an ink pen used to create the blackest night, use my dark to feed your light.
Use my black to make your white glow brighter; use my scream to make your voice sound quieter.
Read these pinpricks as signs that I, your sky, am shamed, sullen, sick to my stomach.
You, moonchild, your silver, sweet glimmer steals my sight, your ether eats up my appetite.
Meet me when you see the stars, I need to feel those crescent scars,
Even if you will never be mine, I would starve to taste you one last time.
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