Moon Lover

dock and water :: michael hull

I want to make love to the moon tonight.

Incandescent light spills over my skin, relaxed on a bed of slatted wood suspended in water. Her reflection leads to me. Through my lenses she wears a halo; her edges blur through lust and longing.

A love song beats against the sand, daring, pushing, willing me to take the next step. Only a brave woman would kiss the moon. Wisps of cloud-hair float against my skin. I remember the feel of my lover's hands, now given to another's senses. A tremble of oxygen escapes my lips.

She is almost whole; the full lips of the horizons part to allow her passage through.

I remember, as a child, watching the center of a bridge parting to grant passage to a tanker ship. The pieces moaned and growled when separated, and lay silent together. I watched in wonder, my own small frame understanding each sound as if I was their maker.

A temperate East wind tickles my neck, my back, my breasts, my toes. Sweet nothings whisper on that intimate breeze; the moon sending wishes, and warnings. Do I take that next step: do I say hello to her? Suddenly I realize that the Moon knows all my secrets -- ill-fated attraction, overactive lust, the need to be desired, to know self-worth.

I am ashamed, much the same as when a lover sees the scars from a poorly-healed surgery. I am afraid of the light, afraid that the me I hide in skin-tight clothes behind crimson lips will be spotted, will escape and demand the love and respect that I do not know or understand how to give.

Dangerous lovers are easy; they ask for little emotional attachment, and don't care how you treat yourself. A vessel, a bundle of flesh and sex and something to hold onto, is all they want. I miss that. Leaving danger behind isn't scary; it's figuring out what to do instead that terrifies me.

So I lay open to the moon.

I bare my heart to her touch, and her icy fingers wipe at my tears. Clouds glimmer in her reflected energy.

To avoid a lover's quarrel, I concede. My promise sounds sincere in the crisp September air.

"I will learn to love myself."

She will come to me every night, to be sure.

In my chilled, bare-skin way, like many lovers before her, I kiss and walk away.