The reach of a harvest moon
awaits its stay within her eyes,
as sorrow redeems waning night.
The sky, in tumult, grounded,
forms the swell of her breasts,
as breath escapes tethered flight.
Not withholding her conscience,
the weight of mourned goodbyes,
reticent, her lips elope with a kiss.
Unwilling distance, she summons
the fierceness of her adornment,
that I should ply with her, my bliss.
Called now to my remitted form,
merely drawn from her grandiose,
as she, with pardoning, has played.
Upon coming dawn, she lays a sigh,
which she breathes well to offer,
the sum of her undoing, displayed.