The moonlight was fluent against her skin,
almost too ghostly when alone yet
a fluid silver when finally enjoined,
the space between soft fingertips
and her face seemed to be forever.

It still hurt to touch her,
which should've made sense
because all knowledge is
always followed by some pain,
by some crushing new human pang.

That's when something about the night
seemed to throb around us whether it was
the scared bird fluttering wings in the heart
beating thick blood rivers to familiar places
or the way just a single quiver pulsed
along her neck's most primal secret vein
subsumed in its own rippling rhythm,
we felt something changing in the air then.

And the moonlight was fluent against her bare skin,
almost too ghostly when alone yet
a glowing silver when we're enjoined,
the space before and after enfolding me
seemed to be the sweetest tether,
the space between every push and pull,
every gasp, squeeze, flicker, and sudden
surrender is often far too immeasurable,
I could've stayed there forever.

It still hurt to touch her afterward,
to know that she may need more
from love than I know how to give,
and it finally made perfect sense because
all knowledge is always followed by some pain,
by the crushing human pang of something else now lost.