Pillowy sheets caress our constellation drawn of lips and fingertips Your salted rind pairs well with wine and waxes larger with my every rotation Your gravity tugs at the tides of my lapping waters, drawing swells with the pull of a magnet to your technicolor dark side You are the moon, the passage of time rising and I am the east, a compass rose calling your lunar seas to the countless suns of my Milky Way, a Woman on the Moon