Moonlight

"Write me poem" she said, her tongue lulling over vowels like a fairy skipping over grass in spring. Her fingers were playing with pearls that dangled from her neck, where I had dangled only a few hours ago. The sheets were blue, and looked oddly like waves splaying up against her legs.

The wooden chair was hard and a chill crawled up my bare thighs. But her lips were puckered up in kissing position, and their color was that of pomegranate skins, so I took my pen.

Your eyes are moons;
I tie myself to their shore -

The words flowed and stopped, like water from a fountain with backed up plumming.

But there is no plummer I can call, no man to overcharge me by the hour, only a form of pomegranate lips and pale skin, framed in moonlight, cold and hard and waiting to be shattered, like a glass figurine I can not quite hold in the palm of my hand.