The moon is harvest,
round and golden.

Traveling the sky like a

tick-ing-clock.

It times you,
sweet silence,
by position of the stars
{those stars twinkling like your eyelights}

Waning moon, falling on the roses

sharp red beauty

like the dim light falls

on the-

"We all," your voice whispers
husks, bleeds
"hurt"

and the gold moon ticks its consent.