Throughout the slow burning of the day, the silver-skinned boy kissed the air with the ghost of moon-soaked lips, images circlinghis head and under his jaw, and paint spilled onto paper. He said he was not an artist, but the boy he remembered told him oncethat the language of art is such a sacred dream. And he believed him.

The moon is in a holding cell, grasped between the bones of his failing ribcage.

It was moon hour when the burning lovers tired, and encased themselves beneath each other’s warmth. Their lips spoke of forbidden promises and butchered daydreams, yearning for the sun and days, and nights stuck in a cage made for monsters.

The pair’s beauty reflected in the singing sea itself, entrancing the moon and the constellations. If only the mind was as beautiful as the body.