Tidal

Pale from nine moons in my ocean,
pink but tipped with a lavender tinge,
your fingers beckon as if pulled yet 
by current: come and go, flow and ebb.

I sway, too, languid dance of the sleepless,
your hands grasping my hair, then necklace.
Light falls to us from a door half-open,
streetlamps seeping through curtains . . . 

Or, are we moonlit through silty fathoms? 
Though I delivered you to the surface, 
bubbles rise from your mouth’s coral chasm,
and the depth of your gaze stops my breath. 

What lies beneath these blue minutes? 
Love, I swear, at delirium’s edge.