I’m drinking wine under the midnight moonlight,
glowing with your endless visions of feats.
Sipping and spilling this wine that lingers on the tongue
like the taste of your lips, like the smell of your skin.
Sitting beside a hollow tree,
lying beneath its canopy,
covered in a white light like fractured bones, like miss placed pearls.
A blanket all the same.
I’m drinking wine that’s darker than the night,
like oil spewing from a spout
and I’m getting colder and older, and hungry and grey.
“We can only glow for so long,”
the hollow tree tells me in a whisper,
as the moon disappears behind the clouds.
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