dusty moon

it is the time of the dusty moon outside tonight, and everything between the white sky and white floor turns red under his dirty glows. the only sound is silence, the extraordinary sound of silence, and i have crept from my creased bedsheets to the dark tiled pattern of my roof. the skin of my knees fits perfectly under the skin of my chin. it is too quiet for the birds to sing, it is too quiet a hear a thing.

i remember when i was child and my mother told me a myth of how the night sky was a black curtain drawn over the sun every twilight to plunge us into darkness, that stars were created by fireflies burning holes in the curtain to allow sunlight to stream through. my child's mind saw the concept as feasible, more dreamlike than the reality, but now i realise that it could not be. the sun could not create something this beautiful, the sun viewed me as worthless. the moon is the creator of all our dreams, (and nightmares if we are bad,) the sun finds pleasure in shattering us back into reality - only a relief for those whom the moon cursed, the ones i wanted to curse as well. no, the world that i, solely, am surrounded by this night is the work of the moon alone, my moon.

he loves me tonight, i can tell without looking; some nights he loathes me and makes me writhe in my dreams, sometimes he's jealous and casts spells to deceive me, and sometimes he's kind and watches over me as i rest. but tonight, oh tonight, tonight he loves me. tonight he lulls me awake and creates for me. tonight he makes me love him back with widened eyes. tonight i can watch him rejoicing in the coming of the white snow, of each flake blanketing the trodden ground. the sun has frozen and cannot thaw, she cannot hurt me any more.

i shift the tangles of my legs so as my feet are dangling freely just over the edge of the roof, and i wait for ice to encase them or for iciles to grow from the skin beneath each of my toes. i wonder how it would feel to walk then, or maybe i'd use the feathered wings of mr songbird to keep them intact. i walk from then the roof then, and for a moment i can not breathe. for a moment i am choking on my own gasps, my own stomach, sir gravity swings me lower and lower. i find myself laying entwined in winter flowers, (wilting pinks and browning oranges). i lay, waiting for flustering lungs to recover, absorbing dust streaking through dull glows and sliver beams. sliver beams help to salvage my insides, my insides which feel on my outside, and my head, which continually spirals and spins.

i remove my shirt button my button, and peel it off my sweat soaked bones, (the colour of my skin matching those of the flakes that land upon it, making them feel lost and bewildered as they touch me). i am moving then, dancing to explore a place so familiar, created for these illustrious hours alone. i am as naked as the trees who's fingers are trying to grab on to me, glistening under the wilderness of the moon's light. i am heading towards my favourite place, a small nest of trees, masked into a cavern by the ice queen. a place where i once played with mimzys, a place where i sill play with magic. a place where lust and i did meet, my blood is warm with numb bones in my feet.

the trees are creatures here, and tonight the moon has ensured that they are awake for me. awake so as when i arrive they swoop me quickly into an entwined concoction of all their spindly arms, and i can hibernate on the edge of conciousness for the remaining hours of this night. from there the moon watches me, he tells me new tales about the sky; he tells me about how the constellations really came to be, about how they sometimes argue and how it makes him ache. i sooth him in whispers, whispers which sooth my skin.

over the stories i watch the sky very carefully, rolling onto my back and feeling the tree's arms roll with me. i see a faint glow somewhere around venus, i see her first fiery breath since the ice encased her. star. i know what is coming and i try to ask how far away she is from me now, how near to me. but he continues his stories, and i continue to whisper. over the minutes i hear his voice begin to mute from my ears, from melodies to murmurs. i feel the tree's grip on my bones loosen ever so slightly. bones from bones, i begin to fall. the glow is beginning to burn, dust is trying to grip onto the light. my moon transforms into the day's ghost, ceasing to be seen; the extraordinary sound of silence broken by the faint hum of the people, of the birds, and the world. i feel the icicles soften beneath the skin about my toes, "it is mourning time."