As one beneath the spill of moonlight,
their essence braced against the cold,
as slithered, silver seepings
illume the twilight’s mould;
and hue the pale
of winters drift,
a deeper
shade of
old.
No
words are
spoken in
the moment; no
trace of sound is made.
Instead, his muse slow creeps,
by whisper of fingertips,
each hushed stroke a faithless promise,
a temperate touch to coax her sin.