Each
You splinter the night, enter
and unravel my dreams,
a long red thread.
Panting, I wake, mired
in my bed, pushing the fright
out of my eyes and blinking at
the slanting moonlight slipping
through the shades
of you, a midnight-blue reverie
shrouded in
a damp fog of desire and
a firestorm of regrets, each
wrapped in bright, clear silver,
each a June day,
each a November evening.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
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