She Bathes in Moonlight (continued)

She pours herself
like rain into absence,
filling the hollows of silence
with the perfume of presence.

Each droplet slides
down the marble of her shoulder—
a constellation fading
as the night grows bolder.

The moon is her kin,
spilling silver schemes,
scribing soft secrets
on the skin of dreams.

And I,
rooted yet rising,
drink her in with every breath—
not as wine in my goblet
but as the earth drinks spring to death:
not to forget,
but to witness
the rise and fall
the bloom, the breach,
the merging shore of all.

Her hands—
not quite fire,
not quite air—
undo old knots
time left out there.

And with one glance,
she strips the shame
from the clothed silence
of my name.