Wordle #437

Wordle 437

A horned moon perfectly hoisted,
your smile cleaves a coterie of limp branches,
its effulgent blade pressing into my pulse.
Beneath your insistence my skin blossoms
first red than purple, as if it were a garden.

Your hands are careless underneath my dress,
popping the buttons accidentally or on purpose,
but never staying anywhere long enough
to raise my expectations. It’s all teasing
until one of us is swallowed whole.

You kiss me hopefully, lips blood red
and tasting of pie or is it mulberry wine?
There are no takers in this scenario
only paper thin wings pressed flat against our ribs.
I promise to stay and see this through if you will.

Stars, delicate as eggshells, tumble
uncharted from a brimstone sky.
Whatever our families’ reservations
nothing matters that is beyond the scope of our love.