But the Moon is Vulnerable
She casts her best shadows on naked skin, her unformed before
patterning the afterward with stories from the empty dark, her
angst dissolving in the comfort of her own transience. But the
moon is vulnerable in my bed. Let’s sit at the table, she says,
this wine turns to viscous ebony at a touch, untethering stories
too harsh for the afternoon sun. Remembering is a game of faded
horizons and soft lips, slaughtering hearts on chequered silver
and night. We hold love softly, in the palm of our regrets, gravity
gyrating against the rising wind, breath still heaving through the
twisted loop of infinity, dreams travelling to the seams of impossible
want. The morning found her, my answers still trapped like stars
behind her sleeping eyes. They say where she had lain alone, the
air still smells of watered rosebuds, the blemished light still pools
on the floor where it dripped slowly from her outstretched hand.
Rajani Radhakrishnan: "I am from Bangalore, India and post my work on thotpurge.wordpress.com. Some of my poems have recently appeared in online platforms such as The Lake, Quiet Letter, Visual Verse and Parentheses Journal."
The Ekphrastic Review
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