kiss the moon goodnight

by Ireland Griffin

ostudio

you are sitting.

by the edge of the dock, soft waves of moonlight making  trails down your cheeks. a fishing rod is clutched, in  your gnarled hand. held the way one would hold a lover.

the salt from the air has seemingly made itself into a new man  inside of the constraints of your skin. for why else would your top lip catch the edge of soft drops of water as it splatters down the dock.

the sallowed lines of your face illuminated by the sky,  your bones curving in. to fit the model of a man that you  had never intended to be. but often it is hard to turn your  head away, when someone is clutching your cheek and  whispering the wrong life into you.

you look up, and the figure in the sky above, who paints  you in yellow every night, who’s the subject of every  sad song you’ve ever tried to write.

you wish that you could be something bigger than this,  someone who is not rooted to the same dock, to the same  sky, to the same earth, staring up at the moon that gets wider, and wider and wider every day.

but your dear, it is everything that you wish to be. and  your hollow body starts to feel warmth when it is near

and maybe it’s thoughtless to say but it cradles your  fragile disposition in between its teeth.

and so here you remain.

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Ireland Griffin is a 17-year-old poet from Austin, Texas.