She wears the moon around her wrist,
Like a hexed trinket of a faun...

Here you come,
over again...

There's a rush
between the many folds...

I dream of fluffy, pillowy pancakes
mounding on my rather half-eaten plate...

.
moonbeams creep closer...

Mistress of the Moon
and there she is...

Bubble Bath
drunken goblins bathe...

Devoid of light, among the graves,
I see her rise over the looming shadows...

I should have known:
the sun does shine...

She is a rescued moth morphing
under a sheet of stars navigating...

She danced,
a fiery flame...

***
the miles are simply longer...