We are in a forest and yes,
the trees hide us.
You talk about the moonlight and the depth of your love for it,
but the race is always
against it: the shadows swallowing two bodies and two bodies being grateful.
You talk because you always talk.
The sore throat, and you talk. The tired eyes, and you talk.
The lights go out, they always do, and when the talking is over everything else is.
Lights steal what the shadows should offer,
and yet two bodies being grateful
because they still have movements,
the possibility of moving, with
We are in a forest but the trees were cut.
The cold blood where we dance on, the trees, bleeding, and yes,
Or, I'd say, at least, til
the lights come back again.