The Girl Who Bleeds Moonlight

The room is dark, and the stillness of dawn is almost palpable.

The rain from last night has continued to pour stubbornly,

and a wafting cool breeze carries with it the musky scent of mud and moss.

Moonlight flows in through an open window, dimly illuminating,

Her.

Asleep under the soft lunar light,

she allows me a moment of near-deviant admiration;

the delicate scar on her chin,

the translucent veins under her eyelid,

the mole on her supple earlobe now resting on a pillow of lush dark hair,

her fragile neck timidly disappearing into the negligee,

and the pale moonlight caressing her skin.

But something, or maybe everything, seems eerily bizarre.

The moonlight does not reflect off of her, as light is expected to do,

but rather, gravitates to and fades into her, with urgency,

her body thirstily drinking the pale white wine in a frenzied revel.

And in that moment, I realise;

the moonlight is not visiting, it is returning.

The light never belonged to the Moon at all,

it always belonged, to her.

It's her light the Moon borrows at dusk,

which she lends, selflessly and in absolute secret,

which the Moon begrudgingly returns at dawn.

And each night, while she lies depleted,

the Moon radiates a shade of Angel.

And all the planets, and stars, and galaxies turn to steal a second glance,

at the graceful celestial body, elegantly draped in white.

I myself, in fact, am guilty,

of wistfully staring up at the Moon quite often.

But neither me, nor the planets, or stars, or galaxies,

could have dreamt of this silent sacrifice.

But tonight I am part of something divine,

a ritual you will never hear of again;

of light returning home, to whom it belongs.

So every time you look at the Moon,

in awe of its radiance, know this;

the light does not belong to the Moon.

The Moon borrows it, and the light belongs, to her.

To the girl who bleeds moonlight.