Where the moon sleeps

There is a time before each sunrise and sunset that nobody likes to talk about

between the circle

between the cycle

Where the moon dictates the arms of tides to cradle my lungs until I am as blue as they are

Where the moon desires and wills those arms to enfold and paralyze me there because I had said before there was too much empty space around me

There is a time between these cycles where the moon does not control those arms,

Where the moon sleeps,

These are the times in which I am awake,

And there is still too much empty space around me,

Sometimes I wished I could be the sun so I could dry the waters in which the arms grew,

Sometimes I wished I could be Cleopatra,

Untouched by the wavering, beautiful, and cruel, but with snake venom rushing through my veins

Sometimes I wished I would slip away in these arms while they held me so

Like a flame left in a windowsill put out by a whisper, or the transcendence of a whisper

But the flame is always lit again when another pierces the sky

When black fades to colors that do not derive from it

And there it is

The thing I want to become sits in the sky, in my reach

Until that thing I want to become abandons and abandons again

Falling gently, yet so heavily,

and the time between the circles

between the cycles

Where the moon dictates the arms of tides to cradle my lungs until I am as blue as they are

begins again