Waltzing across a wide and withered world, I flounce my skirts of tulle and starlight. I’m a claimed woman, his name sewn in flannel on the outskirts of my pink existence. My boundaries are purple and regal as an empire’s final sunset. My man’s hands are dinosaurs – viscerally fantastic and dangerous. When he prowls through the lairs of seamonsters to find me a pure pearl of wisdom to shine on my neck, the sea reflects the moon and his eyes watching my body like a specimen of clutchable cloud. What does it mean to be a woman unbound? She is in her mortal state, that woman, wearing a tapestry of outgoing tide and longing. My name was once a lonely thing. Now it’s complete, and my God of orange and expertise calls me by that moniker.
Miniature Moon 