The moon leaves the landscape
bleached bone-pale, the trees
on the horizon, an interlocking skeleton.

You stand, a ghostly figure with
glass bones and paper skin, face
turned up to the moonlight.

A breeze that whispers of the dawn
blows right through you but elicits
shivers on my skin.

The night is quiet by your command⁠—
when I ask if you are real your
eyes contain oceans, and your voice is
birdsong.