Plucking Stories

I wonder if she notices, In certain times when darkness softens And the hard edges of silence Turn our whispers crystalline When she curls my body Into the silk parenthesis of her arms Laying tiny rivers of breath on my skin, How I crumple like an unread love letter, Old, yellow parchment Peppered with the mad scrawl Of some wild, hungry heart Gone destitute on the kisses Of moonlight’s only daughter. She is where I go to...