Since the very moment I imploded upon this dreary sky, we have been intimate; soul-taken and intertwined. Our strings of fate, the ones thought to be unbreakable and blush-red, really a speck-white and cut from our original soulmates and made to be a maddening knot of reckless, half-lit ardour and heated play fights.
Desire and I, we seek each other under a moon of malignant arts. Moon-lore...Be they slippery things. Humanity is constantly loosing its firm grip of them. They go so far as to sick their 19th century romantics upon her, the moon, to write flavourful, exotic sonnets about her; bare foot and drunk on her darksome, cocaine wax.
She’s a vixen - an enchantress, that night-sky Empress.
It is why Desire and I talk our shit about this sea-witch Moon under her own pale-light, in her own kingdom. Why we seek each other’s embrace during her moments of verdict. We burn and combust to fall victim to her wrath - torrid like the finest silver melted and left to cool on exposed skin. We hunger for raw-marble, space-bitter fingers to pluck us from a sea of pitch, and toss us, rag doll-such, to the earth.
Shooting stars or fallen angels?
Be there a difference in this age?
You see, the Moon believes that I collapsed and began life to be hers. That my incubation in heaven’s star-dust womb was only decided for her entertainment alone.
I am the night’s Canis constellation. I am the night’s Sirius.
And the Moon rules over the night.
There be it, I am, by nature, property of that bewitching tundra of souls and sonnet.
I should, by my dog-nature, long for her - my moon mistress.
But I say, with a mouth full of crooked teeth and wolf-grin; fuck that.