The Girl Who Bleeds Moonlight

I admire the ridge on her chin and the veins below her eyelids, illuminated only by strands of moonlight that seep through the window.
She lies in front of me, eyes closed as if in deep sleep but I know she's awake, dreaming, listening to the patter of raindrops.
Her calm face and teasing neck tenderly peer out of a dark dress, and that's all I can see in the fog of night.
And the moonlight dancing on her skin. 

She glows, and strangely, the moonlight does not seem to bounce off of her, but rather, flows into her.
She isn't reflecting moonlight, I observe. She's absorbing it. Strange.
And then it hits me like a flash of lightning in a thunderstorm. It's been in front of me all along. How could I have been so blind?
The moon isn't lighting up the night revealing the vision in front of me, because the light does not belong to the moon at all.

The light belongs to her, and she's claiming it back. 

It's her brightness that the moon borrows at sundown, and she lends it gracefully.
And every night the moon radiates brilliance and the galaxy turns around to take a second look while she lies drained but never complaining. 
While I've looked up in awe and admired the moon's beauty quite often, tonight I witness something more majestic.
I witness the light return home to whom it belongs, and a face that glows in a shade of angel.

So every time you look up at the moon and revel in its light, know this.
The light does not belong to the moon at all.
The moon borrows the light, and the light belongs to her.
To the girl who bleeds moonlight.

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